I didn’t read until my twenties
      not really—
      I didn’t know to drink

words like a broth. Telling myself
      I didn’t have time, I was too
      busy slaying invisible

armies with chestnut branches.
      By sixteen, branches had dwindled to
      pencils—I wrote before I read,

toying with sails before
      I had lumber, constructing galleons with
      unstable decks. These feckless

skeletons collapsed, and I
      sat surrounded in the hull
      alone with words.

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.

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1 Response to Rudderless

  1. Dina Honour says:

    I didn’t know how to drink words
    like a broth.

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