The Invention of Lies

I started small, telling my mother
that santa claus was a fat man
dressed in red velvet
and that Mary was pregnant
with Jesus and no god-damn
virgin.  And I told you
I wanted to be your lover
and glorious and then everything
went wrong: the a/c broke
and the neighbor with her dead
fish--and you said
a shell, you said, a house,
a candle, a book, you said,
a hand, a breast, a skin,
you said and nothing else,
nothing else. In the silence
I began making sounds
to fill my story. I told
everybody grass is green
(I still believe that)
and everything they wanted
to know about wave/particle
duality of light and about
what it was and not what
it now becomes: a mirror.
It was the potato that made
things so difficult--obstinate
browness. Then I made mirrors 
reflect cautiously only that
which we want to see 
and to whisper something good 
is going to happen to you 
today.  Something good.
And when you look away
the mirror breaks, which is
why you should never
lose sight of the image,
never blink because other
universes die in your closed eyes,
galaxies implode, stars collide,
suns go supernova. And I made you
worry about the expiration 
date on butter.