The Interrogation
She’s seven, just.
I squirm as she interrogates:
she catches a hint of untruth and;
ruthless;
she digs at it as a dog would a tick.
Cold water, drip, drip, drip
relentless, catches me sleeping:
I almost answer with the truth;
but check;
she flows as Escher’s liquid continuum.
Roots as a boar for truffles
almost finds her goal:
I’m forced to move with stealth;
waiting;
she sniffs, blood in the water.
Next year she’ll know,
all innocence gone, truth out.
will she keep the charade, tell the tale?
She will,
as we all have been taught for the sake of others.
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