Lisa Rosowsky: Truth
Now, when words and truth are estranged,
and slide by each other, nodding, like exes at a party,
what words should we trust?
When war empties out whole countries and the brown water rises,
what is fed to the people but words, words enough to choke on, if they don’t starve first?
Pity the poets, trying to wring from words
whatever truth might still be left
after the despots and liars have crumpled them up,
leaving them to litter the refugee roads.
Thank God then for the artists,
for their language has yet to be fouled.
Truth still resides in the etched black line, the pot well thrown,
the aperture that clicks upon what cannot after be unseen.
Even as you pluck the words from the roadsides and try to smooth them into sense,
artists are clothing the bent backs, drafting plans for the shelters,
finding where beauty hides in this roiling world and drawing it out.
When there is nothing to be said that can be certified true,
nothing to be heard that doesn’t mean one thing and still another,
why reach for words?
Trust instead the color, the image, the form carved into space
which is what it is and therefore cannot lie.
If you seek truth on this shaky, burdened, hopeful planet,
why not make art?
