Two Poems

Self-Portrait with Ghosts & Projectors

[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_3/williams1.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

If you knew me after my dad died, when I wanted
to be a cathedral woman, all stone, no need for worshippers-

alone, me encamped in his flannel shirts, eleven years old, trying
hard not to gaze at boys-

The speed of this southbound train coupled with my hiking boots & highlighter-
orange dress-Spinoza might say my body is collision- the tuba case

between my knees, backpack heavy with wine
stolen from my mom’s wedding at the nursing home chapel-

If you knew me before my dad died, when I pierced
my nose to spite my face- he walked laps

around the house to soothe his rage, said he missed
my music. He called church the best babysitter, said I looked best

in a starched alb- did he know I was rehearsing
for a holy career, did he know I bought into that God-

Oh host of fake fathers, please hold me accountable-
I’m sick of self’s numb borders, dull train bound for someplace

I don’t know yet-

[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_3/williams2.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

In bed with a peanut butter & banana sandwich-me
in my antique orange dress & my sister with her damaged eyes.

Dad’s same body on the screen,

some years of him alive. Polo shirts, khakis-
inside-pocket footage. Family thighs converted to DVD-

fuzz & darkness to the beat of Mummer’s music, light
like hours of firm hand across the eyelid. (& those conversations

we weren’t supposed to hear. Camera left on while we played dolls on the lawn.)

Christmas Eve, my sister asked Mom whether the emptiness has been edited out-

I might have asked this before

the night I dreamt I could edit what I said to Dad just after I said it.
My stutter cut-

Maybe we need that hour of Dad’s lint, aural evidence
of what we won’t admit-

Maybe we need the night we brushed our teeth, said our prayers for the tape.

The year I found every Easter egg, proud to show Dad our matching dresses & our baskets,
their uneven weight-