Autobiographobia

I shan’t tell you about switching his wooden leg
for her wooden leg, I shan’t confess
my lies and the lies against me: when I said I loved X
but really loved Y
and was sleeping with Z
to injure the feelings of X
who was sleeping with Z, Y, and me.
Whether I was there or not
when the sky fell, how I learned
the cure for lesions
of the heart, if it’s true
or not that I keep, in a coop,
on my roof, the only two extant dodo
birds (plus one dodo egg)—my lips
are sewn shut (might as well be!) with bailing wire.
I had many funny uncles.
Not one ever put his hand in my pants.
Never met a dipsomaniac
until I left home
and wandered all those years, in and out, through the lives of others.
My life is one filled with blessings.
And if I’ve been wronged
then for each wrong I’ve been multi-blessed.
Which is why
I will not confide
my serial poisoning of parakeets.
It would be fruitless
to ask me regarding my part
in the extinction of sheep.
About my childhood: not a peep.
I sold my grandmother’s hearing aid
not only for cash but also to facilitate
my screaming in her face.
I loved my grandmother,
whose husband I did not know.
Because I’m telling the truth,
there is no shame.
Because I’m telling the truth, and I’m sure
it actually happened
(I was there!), because I’m telling the truth
it is right that I talk only of myself
and never of you, or you, and you, or you.

Thomas Lux