John Sibley Williams
Summer's knives open
our apples up to bees. All
the sweetness stolen by
thirst or rot. The little
left us when the rains
return to scatter
the insects, we crush
into nectar & water down
for our kids so they know
what it's like to drink
from the world.
×
A schizophrenic sky
shakes the birds free
of their branches, blurs
the kitchen window; we are
choosing to be trapped
inside rather than risk
that openness. Grandma
is turning white bread
into ash again. Edges
singed. Center dark as
a savior's skin before
the bleach. She asks
if I can see Jesus
in the burning.
She asks if I can taste him
there.
×
My father burns the meat
to make sure it's dead. Enough
blood on our lips, he likes
to say. He likes to say
take whatever fits in your mouth
& chew. Chew the names off
the dead. Chew history
down to gristle & bone.
Soak it all up in sauce
so we forget what it is
we're eating.
×
At my mother's funeral
a priest offers us
a stranger's body
dried & pressed,
flavorless. My own
children are licking
the dust off the pews.
Together, we mantra the word
savor savor savor savor this
until we lose her face in the saying.