Ian C. Williams
Could you take my picture?
I want to know this moment
slipped its thicket
into the light—
to cinch it against my ribs
so no one can say it didn’t
happen. I’ve climbed
from the bellies of too many whales
to believe they can’t
swallow me again.
I’ve been dressing in
someone else’s clothes, and for the first
time, I try to slide my limbs through
narrow sleeves—I’m finding them too small.
My strings are clipped and woven in
a nest by my feet—is this
my home? Please—
leave the light on for me.