John Sibley Williams Like a plague of locusts

or chaff erupting from split wheat,

though if I were in the storm’s path—


practicing my dying or unburying

my daughter from our wind-wracked


house just to bury her again in an equally

unforgiving earth—I’m sure no metaphor


would suffice. This is not the sky

our grandmothers taught us to pray to;


this canvas of bald trees & splintered

schools not like anything


we can shape a childhood from.

Harvey, Irma, Maria. The intimacy


of naming without knowing. I don’t know

where the line is between empathy


& the world. I imagine the revolver of her

tiny body misfiring over and over into


a savage wind. A darkness so dark it hurts

to see the other side through it.


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