Her mother told the other mothers that my friend was a liar,

so that whatever she said no one believed her.

On sleepovers, her uncle crouched over our beds in the dark.

Her mother changed my nightgown.  You wet yourself, she said.

I was nine, knew I was not a bed wetter, but I didn’t want to be a liar

too. When I went home, my nightmares were folded into my suitcase

along with a half-forgotten sense of some terrible secret.

As a teenager, I packed my friend away with my too small clothes,

old dolls. We lost touch completely during my turbulent twenties.

Two decades later, memories tumbled out, as if from an old

suitcase that burst open to disgorge a pile of cum stained nighties,

torn panties, garter belts, black lace corsets, polaroids.

Then I knew who the real liar was.