Epitaph: Fragment
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I made myself into a map for youto find yourself. My body a destination a-swellwith topographies that, with strategy, could beplaced anywhere. Look at the back of my kneesfor gorges, at a tooth’s edge for danger.After rearranging me, try to teach memy self again. Even my face is foreignwith a language I never knew.Falling to you. What belonged to my spine’sporcelain cups stacked on their shelves of sinewbelongs to your hand and your hand, belongs.It only so briefly feels like warthen later like routine. Fold me. I am yet irreparable. [End Page 497]
PHILLIP B. WILLIAMS, a native of Chicago, IL, is a candidate for the MFA in creative writing at Washington University in St. Louis, where he is a Chancellor’s Graduate Fellow. He is author of two chapbooks, Bruised Gospels (Arts in Bloom, Inc.) and Burn (YesYes Books), as well as poems in a number of journals, including Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Callaloo. He is the poetry editor of Vinyl, an online journal.
