1 poem
John sibley williams
Open Season
Rifle crack.
Silence.
All this god-forsaken waiting
to see what falls.
Sometimes a bird or two. Or stars. Sometimes
a brother’s son who refuses the brightly
glowing vest because it seems too girly.
We’re all trying to prove
ourselves to someone.
Today we’re hoisting a buck up into a flatbed
as prayer.
As prayer, we’re thrusting our hands deep into it.
& bone knives.
In a field still stained in moonlight
waking
silently to color,
three days before the season opens
to blood & gristle,
we’re here
to take what we can in our mouths
& chew.
Before the animals ready for flight.
Before others taint the land with their prayers.
"Open Season" was a runner up for the 2018 Up North Poetry Prize