At the museum is a bronze dagger hilt presented as a fragment
looted before any god bound pleasure to books. You swam north.
We had questions. Quickening were years between war then
rumors of people packed into a cave, singing. …
Poetry
At the Mention of Grief: All Queer Confess
Lust as corporal punishment, implies we kneel on each other for pleasure.
boy: a gadget I stomach on sighting my father watch me pull the least
non-binary stunt I’m capable of.
I— double-edged pronoun, perishable filth
Pa tells me— ‘snithe …
…and, Joan Crawford left her daughter & lucency
… and, Joan Crawford left her daughter
nothing
in her will,
not even
a wire hanger.
lucency
amongst a breathless, debilitating,
incapacitating,
panic attack
i
told
myself
not …
Woman, Bird, Star & Brown sun and house top
Woman, Bird, Star
I closed myself within myself purposely.
The first method by which I tried to contain
miracles was to bind them to me with bandages.
I saw how the rest were living, under canary
yellow skies. But not …
Credible Threats
Too low toilets, sandy plastic, first-grader size.
Someone forgot about middle school girls, skyscrapers
overnight. It’s the only place on campus without
cameras, unexpected refuge for resting bitch faces.
A girl Jackson Pollocks the second stall, spatter
of crimson, daub …
Is It Even A Diaspora Poem Without The Immigrant Parents’ Story?
Make sure they were poor and even if not,
make sure they were poor at some point.
This especially important if you are Brahmin:
no one wants to hear about the white people
who aren’t kind to you in the …
Who is There / You Inform Our Regret / I Am in Your Field
Who is There Who is There
You Inform Our Regret
I Am In Your Field
Evan Williams is a Chicago-based poet interested in the collision of Surrealism, masculinity, and the natural world. Their work appears in DIAGRAM, Pleiades,
Glass Delusion
But the king grew increasingly erratic
swaddled in blankets, demanding that iron rods
be sewn into his clothing, so that when his glass
body bumped a wall, it would not shatter. He held
still for hours, and would not let …
Ode to the loghmeh
Not quite a morsel or a nugget,
not a hint or a nibble or slice or shred,
not a scrap or a snack or a grain or a crumb,
not even a hunk or a chunk or a taste or …
Testing a Pattern / Replicas / Swim, Swam, Swum
Testing a Pattern
I’ve watched someone who needed air
pitch a loose fist through her own window.
It was the second time I watched her die.
My mouth is a window open.
I hang heavy toile curtains—a scene
of a …
