If You Tell

If you tell, the stars will turn against you,
you will have not night but emptiness.

If you tell, you will live in an old house
in the desert all alone with cactus for friends.

If you tell, people will hide their children
from the monster others say your kind are.

If you tell, the police will add you to the list
of people who might have killed the albatross.

If you tell, you will walk in a hollow room
full of the sound of liar, liar, pants on fire.

If you tell, poets will call it marketing,
a ploy to get ahead in the game.

If you tell, women will think you are trying
to steal a place that is not yours.

If you tell, you will become a stinky thing
no aromatherapy will ever make sweet.

If you tell, all the therapists you ever saw
will claim you in reports to some conference.

If you tell, you will see the wounded everywhere,
shuffling legions, the murdered souls of children

under angels' wings beating a prayer in a place
with no night, no day, no palladium of lies.