Ordinary Beasts

JOHN SIBLEY WILLIAMS

There are worse ways to die. The tin foil sword my son hacks off the heads

of hydrangeas with, turned inward. The poisoned teacup my daughter serves to the stuffed bear

clutching a fat pink heart I gave her for her third birthday. The sky

peeling back layer after layer like an onion, a bedsheet in August, & the world

warms. It’s amazing what you can find beneath

what you’re looking for. Beneath the doe we left for dead, a mangle of maggots

gleaming white & true. Beneath me, my son pinned to the earth

giggling as if the moment belongs to us. I once made a necklace of paperclips

& wore it like a string of enemies’ ears. Even if I knew how to take it off, I wouldn’t. I haven’t.

We all need something to scream into. Void.

Mirror. It’d be a shame to mourn ourselves alone.