I lied on the intake form.
Under History
I wrote: no significant changes.
The nurse was tired.
The room smelled like bleach
and managed fear.
My mother held her purse
as if it contained
the last intact fact.
If I wrote the truth—
she believes Mars is tethered to the dock,
she calls a spoon the moon,
she reads my name off dust—
someone would reduce her
to a value.
So I gave them numbers
that behaved.
When the doctor asked
how long it had been happening,
I said: recently.
I said: just this year.
Recently is a word
with good posture.
I watched the lie
enter the chart—
ink drying
into something
no one would argue with.
On the way home
she pointed at a streetlight
and said: home.
I didn’t correct her.