Williams April 24th

The Fiercest Fables

We fly the aliment kite, coat ourselves in hypodermic

glitter. At the anointed time, gravediggers flee

their posts & we visit our ancestors. I knit

you a tiara of cockroach & thunder. We tell

the fiercest fables, fashion a shrine

out of mouse skulls & tinsel. Your eyes worm

through the clay, knock on the rotten wood

below us. A sapling rises up, the smell

of green & grease. I scrape off the bark,

put it in a jar with the fluid you found

beneath your floorboards. We wait

for the colors to happen, for the explosion

to occur right in our hands.

Williams April 23rd

Flicker & Grimace

Blood drips into the washbasin,

a cameo for the leper. The darkroom

hides the icons of dismissal--frayed

knots, pictures of lesions on the unbelievers.

When the light comes on, it is red

& merciless. Nothing is immortal, not

the slag hidden in the foot locker

or the dark moss congregating on the face

of all the abandoned books. The washbasin

reaches its capacity in silence. Little rivers

biset the room, growing deeper, growing

muddier. On the wall, a clock rearranges

itself, wants desperately to be understood

as an alarm. The light clicks off again &

everything glows unsteadily. The river

clamors against the ceiling, calling

the spector to come out & watch,

calling the churches to torch the signal.

Williams April 22nd

Golem & Venom

The sage fogs his mirror, wipes away

the gray from his face. He hasn’t seen

a dragon for days but that doesn’t mean

he can’t feel his hands go scaly & wrong.

In his land of cloister & ruin, the shadows

wander, collate bones. He breathes deep,

taking into his body all the hidden places

of his tiny cell. Below his feet, something

moves in the straw. He can feel a squeezing

on his heart, an old feeling, not familiar,

but ancient, like the dirt outside his window,

cracked & wanting. He feels something bite

into his thigh. He feels himself bite his lips.

Williams April 21st

Cartography

The thin candle in the mortuary bends & pants. We place

our burden beside ourselves, stretch out on the tables

full of vinegar & needles. You pretend

to lance your eye. I pretend to retch. Neither one

of us is truly pretending. I open our sack, take out

the oil & the bread, tough as yesterday. You make

a pile of the shaved root, red & glistening. One of us

should be chanting, but we’re not much for song so we gather

the flame in our hands, blow on each other to make it grow.

We douse the pile in oil, watch it flare, spread the ashes on bread

with your father’s pocket knife. You hand me both halves. I choke

them down, see shapes move on the wall. The candle’s flame burns green

& gold. You touch my shoulder. Be careful. I smile, my mouth foams with grit.

Parts of me are forgotten now. Parts of the walls are opening up.

I tell you I won’t get lost. I tell myself I know my way back.

Williams April 20th

Brushfire Across the Constellation

I was a hoop skirted nova

dressed as a ballad full of bombs.

You were a statue made from a thousand

blowtorch kisses. This is all written

on the skin of the gagging hunchback

we call friend. This hotel room is a flag

planted in a body bag. We’ve made

a pair of thrones from the remnants of pistol

& bone. We don’t require the trappings

of our office. Only a trap.

Williams April 19th

Teeth Full of Bees

Behind his knuckles he hides

two sacks of pilgrim discord,

black & furrowed. I am at his feet,

gaping at the opening in my chest.

This brand marshals up my arms,

snakes around my throat, pillboxes

my mouth, iron & razor. His good

eye seeps into my bad one. This isn’t

the first time this has happened. I convene

with the concrete gods with every jumped-up

blackguard. He doesn’t know the alley

is on my side, doesn’t feel the spiders

I can send right through his forehead.

From this angle, the cardboard boxes stacked

up against the wall look wilty & weak. From

this angle, weakness is all I see.

Kristin April 21

Thunder Bay

The graveyard’s edge, maple shaded and silent. This is the place to leave letters enclosed in ziplock bags. And a pen in case anyone decides to write back. Spring puddles smudge the ground like lead. I move faster. I won’t let Matt catch my leg. Worms dislodge, teetering like long ghosts beneath the water.

The edges, fenced in and barbed, breed another set of challenges. So does the slicing of the lake’s breath through the trees: a meiosis of exhalation. Running didn’t feel like it when we were fearful. Fear didn’t feel like it, when we remained hidden. 

(*a revision of a previous posted poem)