all we ever wanted was everything* john sibley williams
We weren’t so hungry our gods
could be eaten. Even with wine.
Mouthfuls of ash. Not yet. It takes
more than a house in disrepair
to imagine the nails will hammer
themselves, more than a few years
of darkness to demand so much of light.
But we were hungry. For something.
A country to take with us long after
we shunned it. A barrel fire to last the night.
A word for salve that didn’t imply injury.
Some whiskey. Brown bread. Cigarettes. Stars
we could see well into morning. It’s not
the illness that kills you, my grandfather
would say, but giving up on a cure.
That was before the illness killed him,
back when you & I were small & small
our cruelties. Those holes the moon cleaves
through the clouds look a bit too much like
exit wounds now. & the stars, shell casings
left to cool in a field. A wilderness of neon,
pigeons, prayers, silence. As if we’re hungry
for a light to reach us down here, frayed
like the end of a snapped rope.
*This title is inspired by the song of the same name by Bauhaus.
could be eaten. Even with wine.
Mouthfuls of ash. Not yet. It takes
more than a house in disrepair
to imagine the nails will hammer
themselves, more than a few years
of darkness to demand so much of light.
But we were hungry. For something.
A country to take with us long after
we shunned it. A barrel fire to last the night.
A word for salve that didn’t imply injury.
Some whiskey. Brown bread. Cigarettes. Stars
we could see well into morning. It’s not
the illness that kills you, my grandfather
would say, but giving up on a cure.
That was before the illness killed him,
back when you & I were small & small
our cruelties. Those holes the moon cleaves
through the clouds look a bit too much like
exit wounds now. & the stars, shell casings
left to cool in a field. A wilderness of neon,
pigeons, prayers, silence. As if we’re hungry
for a light to reach us down here, frayed
like the end of a snapped rope.
*This title is inspired by the song of the same name by Bauhaus.
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John Sibley Williams is the author of As One Fire Consumes Another (Orison Poetry Prize) and Skin Memory (Backwaters Prize). An fourteen-time Pushcart nominee and winner of various awards, John serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review. Publications include: Yale Review, Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, Massachusetts Review, and Third Coast.