The Locals

1.
Miguel once set the back of his head on fire
in an effort to drive the voices
ahead of the flames, into the open —

at least that’s what he claims he’s done,
thought there are no scars or signs of such a blaze.
That he may be lying, though, doesn’t occur to me.

I choose instead to believe
his tale of defense and survival,
and that I have just not earned the right to see the evidence.

2.
Alicia whispers to each turtle
she rescues from our unsafe streets.
She won’t tell anyone what she says

as it’s in the language of turtles that she learned
in childhood, something she insists must be kept private
since such secrets are ripe for theft and corruption

once they become known to all.  I tend to agree —
though it hurts to know that here’s another thing
I don’t need to know, and will never know.

3.
In contrast there’s Krystle who can’t shut up
about all the good little secrets of all my good little neighbors.
I learn in five minutes of through-her-porchscreen chatter

the kinks and hijnks of Crankypants across the street
and what the mail carrier does every day to the fat cat
from the second floor of my building.  How she knows these things

I don’t know, since Krystle never leaves her place
except when her daughter takes her to the clinic,
but I’d never accuse her of lying as I don’t know

what she thinks she knows
about me, and even less about who else she talks to
when I’m not around.

4.
I am salty with these secrets now,
secrets that may or may not carry weight,
water, or truth.  I can taste them in myself.

In a less contorted world, I’d stop
listening, I swear.  I would walk away
from them when offered or uncovered.

Now, though, it seems scary or impolite
or foolish to discount anything I’m told.
I can’t trust anything not to be true,

so I stop and listen to the locals
when they speak.
At least I can touch them.

Real sources, perhaps unreliable, perhaps not,
but with faces I can look into
and eyes I can meet with my own.