by John Sibley Williams

Tired of his shadow, a boy tries to be the farthest smallest
star, that prick of light unnamed at the tail end
of a latticework, watching the astronomers pass
over him, seeking his colossal father, eons away,
anything less than a planet is unthinkable,
a boy tries to be what is forgotten in a face.


Tired of his footprint, a boy tries to be the farthest smallest
town, just outside the map’s clean divide,
between states, an unnamed dot, perhaps less
than his founders expected when planting a flag
and claiming the earth their own, calling together in praise
the gods that have changed,
a boy tries to be the outlying mountains
and the river that endures.


Tired of his size, a boy tries to be the farthest smallest
corner of a house, where the longest broom cannot reach,
dark and forgotten, a boy tries to shake off the light and dust
of what he’ll eventually become.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2.

John Sibley Williams is the author of Controlled Hallucinations (forthcoming, FutureCycle Press) and six poetry chapbooks. He is the winner of the HEART Poetry Award, and finalist for the Pushcart, Rumi, and The Pinch Poetry Prizes.

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