Truth To Power

‘Always tell the truth’, my mother said,
But she didn't.
She didn't tell me about
My real dad, or my grandmother's death,
Back row cinema antics or why
The policeman laughed at my broken
Glasses and bruised cheeks.

‘Always tell the truth’, the priest said,
So I told him about the time
I took those tabs at a party,
Tim, (I must have been mad)
And the helpful chemist,
But he just wanted more, as he pressed me
Against the wooden panelling in the vestry.

‘Always tell the truth’ my boss said,
‘But don't touch the probate,
You're not qualified for that’
So I didn't, I wondered, it didn't make sense,
while he embezzled Mrs Darley’s money
Aston Martin racing, throttle Church's shoe squeezed,
His pudgy hand riding up my leg.

It has always been post-truth:
Honesty, clarity blackened by
Whitewashed window panes,
Guarded, grim crossed arms,
Sun blocked, an illusion,
As we squint, our faces turned
To the dazzling spot light.