Small Treasons
- Small Treasons
Somewhere, it isn’t night & a bodymoves across another without harm,as if taking a knife to the sky, & wecan answer when a child asks wherethe world goes when our eyes close.Somewhere, we are sorry; I assumefor our silences. Bones ache & char& must burn, somewhere, surely asskin. Even our ghosts have left us.There must be a place where handsaren’t cages & cages aren’t gestureswell-intentioned but failing. Wherewe love with more than body & hurt& know when we have hurt. Some-where, a less flammable history, atleast where the sparks fly upwardbefore falling back to ash. [End Page 14]
John Sibley Williams is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently Disinheritance. An eleven-time Pushcart nominee and winner of various awards, John serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review. His work has appeared in journals including Yale Review, Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, Midwest Quarterly, Sycamore Review, Massachusetts Review, Columbia, Third Coast, and Poetry Northwest.
