The truth is a backhanded
trophy, which is to say, I’ve
been bloodied by its ring
hand for voicing opinions,
for correcting the
obviously wrong.
This trophy is cobwebbed
and tarnished, stored behind
shinier, more perfectly inscribed models.
Lips bulge bright blue with the aftermath
of the reflection of being right.
What do we win?
When does it start
to feel better
than telling a lie?
RING HAND
Kevin LeMaster
Author Bio: Kevin lives in South Shore Kentucky. His poems have been found at SheilaNaGig online, Heartwood Literary Review, The Slipstream, Triggerfish Critical Review, Route 7 Review, West Trade Review, The Big Window Review, Santa Clara Review and others. He has work forthcoming in Internet Void and the anthology, I Heard A Cardinal Sing. His work in "Rubicon: Words and art inspired by Oscar Wildes De Profundis" was nominated for a Pushcart prize.