some fictions are true, she says,

with a grin like a magician. not all of them,

she says, but some are. for example,

she says, pointing to a wolf wearing

the clothes of an old lady, asleep in a single bed,

for example, she says, this is true. also this,

she says, drawing my attention to

a young man leaning over a sleeping girl,

kissing her, softly waking her. that is also true,

she says. and of course this, she says, gesturing

to a girl in a beautiful ball-gown, big watery eyes

fixed on the second hand of a clock, skirts

bunched anxiously in her hands. of course

that one is true, she says, with a wry laugh.

what about – but she cuts me off,

laughing, no, no. that one is all made up.

and the one about the long hair, that’s

all lies too. it’s the one’s you don’t expect. i mean

this one, she says, climbing up a few steps

so we can see, far off, a knight in shining armour,

his steed peacefully nibbling grass

in dappled sunlight, this is half true. and this,

she says, waving her arm towards a couple

asleep under a sheet, bodies locked together

like held hands, this is true. she shows me

a woman quietly crying to herself

on a sidewalk in gentle rain, this is true.

she shows me a child lost

in a supermarket, this too is true.

she shows me a man walking

away without looking back, his face

all taut like cling wrap, this is true. i nod.

a group of teenagers jump off a cliff

and in to the ocean, screaming wildly,

thin like streamers, this is true.

i nod. a photograph of someone’s parents,

younger, more in love, i nod,

a woman waiting at the traffic lights, her eyes closed,

i nod,  a body caught before it hits the ground, i nod,

a man with his palms and forehead pressed

to a concrete wall, breathing, i nod, i nod,

this is true, this is true, this is true.