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by john silbey williams
Tonight I will make something for you
not of jawbone & break & the usual
starlessness, not idled by half-meant
promise, a hammer handed down without
nails or wood to drive them through,
a childhood missing one or more parents: something the light must struggle to enter.
I swear I won’t kill anything to make it
durable; this time what lasts will last
despite me. The light will be its own.
The angles as true as I’m able to sand them.
No grief attached. No salvation or need for it.
Just a rough little box built from my bones
to keep the bones you’ll collect in.
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