by John Sibley Williams
I want stone
or a word for stone-
you can’t have both.
And though my childhood
spent chucking stones at
lakes, factories, friends
bled many mouths,
they have forgiven
or forgotten me
and in forever recounting to new
lovers, bartenders, friends
the sins acquired these first thirty years,
the repetition- stone stone stone-
has regressed to word
the smooth reality of stone
and the weighty joy in singing
silently my hands’ actions-
whatever their consequence.
John Sibley Williams has an MA in Writing and resides in Portland, OR, where he frequently performs his poetry and studies Book Publishing at Portland State University. He is presently compiling manuscripts composed from the last two years of traveling and living abroad. Some of his over seventy previous or upcoming publications include those in The Evansville Review, Flint Hills Review, Open Letters, Cadillac Cicatrix, Juked, The Journal, Hawaii Review, Barnwood International Poetry, Concho River Review, Paradigm, Red Wheelbarrow, Aries, Other Rooms, The Alembic, Phantasmagoria, Clapboard House, River Oak Review, Glass, Southern Ocean Review, Miranda, Language and Culture, and Raving Dove.
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