“When Geppetto saw those two wooden eyes looking at him, he did not like it at all, and he said angrily, ‘Naughty wooden eyes, why are you staring at me?’
But no one answered.”
Trees don’t speak, not in
whispers, not in their limbs—
long ago their lips grew together.
Bark blankets them.
The boy hasn’t said anything
the whole drive home. He hasn’t
since this morning.
His therapist said trees don’t speak,
not in whispers, not in their limbs—
she said the wind moves
limbs, coaxes the whispers through
She said to be the wind.
Ian C. Williams is a poet often caught wearing coffee, drinking tweed, and confusing common verbs. His work has been published in Yorick Magazine, The Gap-Toothed Madness, and Dirty Chai, among others. He received the 2014 Florence Kahn Memorial Award from the NFSPS for his chapbook House of Bones. He lives with his wife in West Virginia, where he is working on a full-length project.