Deborah Bacharach·PoetrySmall Blue LiesShareShe takes her kids to soccer, stands with them in the rain. Church. Golden delicious apples, dried apricotsstocked in the house of divorce she vacuums. One night, just one night, she lay with a stranger.Her best friend’s body an alley full of wind. So she told her mother she offered herself for her friend’s child, a gift,a blessing, small blue flowers on the deep green branches, the resin so full, so rich along the skin, the strands of hair.Her empty friend holds her hand through blood draws, blood pressure, tips of the scale.Her friend brings the extra iron, laughs when she farts like a lion. Her friend rubs her feet with beeswax.When she tears a son into the world, branches break in her eyes. She hurls them from her side.Wind scrapes the bricks of her body. It howls past gutters of blood, rattles dark sided panes.For the lies we tell wittingly and unwittingly. For the lies we drape with compassion. For lives engorged by lies.