She tells more lies
than there are rooms
in this building.
She lies about moonlight,
ripples, mazes.
She lies about chessboards,
she lies about a boat,
she lies about laughter.
She tells fibs about
made-up fruit,
describes colors
that don’t exist.
When her lover
learns the truth,
he drinks from bottles
shaped like the wombs
of giraffes.
As long as he gives
lobotomies to corks,
the moon can’t land.