By Maurice Devitt
To work out where it went wrong
I replayed all the news bulletins from my youth,
one notable memory sparked by the cavalcade
outside the Texas Book Depository
in grainy black-and-white. I was only six
so was I really remembering it or all the times
its’s been replayed since, the commentary
choreographing my reactions, calling forth
the sadness I inherited from each fresh
restyling of the truth and even if I had been
there, squatting in front of the TV, would I
recall it accurately enough to repel
the misshapen theories that fester in a world
where repetition of a lie is quoted as a fact.
