Kimberly K. Williams
Contributor Biography
Kimberly K. Williams is the author of two books of poetry, Sometimes a Woman (Recent Work Press) and Finally, the Moon (Stephen F Austin UP). She has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas El Paso. Kimberly was shortlisted for the University of Canberra's Vice-Chancellor's Poetry Prize in 2019, and serves as the director of the University of Canberra's Poetry on the Move Festival. She is originally from Detroit, Michigan.
The Swallows Are Chasing
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And the swallows are chasing God,
skimming green pools, edging the cliffs,
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building their nests in the O of his name.
The swallows are chasing God, and I am
chasing the swallows as far as my flat feet
and wingless back will carry me: around
the fat cottonwood, over the gravel,
across bridge to El Rito, past the bear
spotted here sign, almost to the tip
of the massive ruby sky.
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Grace​
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The child works on printing, the fat black
crayon marking paper the color of the sun.
Upper case letters align like soldiers:
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G G G G G G G G G
J J J J J J J J J J J J J
But lower case letters mis-
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behave, reverse and drift: d d d d d b d d d b
p p p q q p p p p p q
She gets the first letter of her name
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right every time: K K K K K K K K K,
but the last letter is tricky. Which way
to extend the leg on the v? And she wonders if
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F is supposed to blow west
or east. Each letter forces finger
cramps. Her mother patiently
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insists—again, again—already teaching
the child the mystery of birth: the great
unease which leads to unwavering
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devotion. Late one night, she accelerates
through the dark, rounding the curves
of San Juan Boulevard, reminding
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her of the crayon tracing loops and filling
empty paper. She sees words
carved from darkness. All
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that time at the antique desk
scraping shapes into letters, learning
reverence: letters to words, words to love.
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St. Anthony of Padua, 1750, Spanish, Unknown Sculptor
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St. Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost
things, why are your hands
empty? You stare at the air
around them in wooden-eyed
surprise. Your face is still
young, part tree, part poly-
chrome glaze. Your five
o’clock shadow frames
red lips. But your hands,
St. Anthony, your hands,
only two thumbs and two
fingers intact, pointing
upward, with fingernails
the size of a baby’s.
St. Anthony,
you are everywhere for me:
at home on my altar, in Kiev
underground, on a card
slipped into my wallet, or
helping me find my eye-
glasses in the grass in the side
yard, and in the museum, inside
the plastic case at the end
of the hall, your hands
aloft, waiting to see
who enters.
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What I Carry​
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How to bring a young boy into this shadowy
world when he is full of such light? I offer
options: You could pray to St. Michael. You could
pray to St. Andrew, your patron saint. Or you could
pray to St. Anthony. He’s for kids. But my go-to
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saint is St. Francis: Make me a channel
of your peace. But this boy doesn’t accept
the options claiming he doesn’t know how to pray,
can’t even start. And I can’t explain what
I know. We only have what we carry.
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In the 1970’s, St. Brigid’s ceiling exposed bluebirds
and a naked Adam hovering in loin cloth. I inspected
the baby-angels’ penises weekly. The ceiling was wide
as the sea, and I floated on it buoyed by Russell Robinson’s
voice, which commanded we Sing it over! rocking my seven
year-old body, rattling my ribs, vibrating my arms when
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we raised them during the last part of the Our Father,
and the adults beside me would pull me almost off the floor:
For thy is the king-dom--and the power--and the glor-y--
For ev-er, we sang. Ah-men. Mr. Robinson’s voice
has resided inside me ever since, the deep resounding
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I have never heard again, not in forty years, reminding
me of the lift and lilt of grace and how to manage what I carry.
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Author's Note:
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"The Swallows Are Chasing" was shortlisted for the University of Canberra’s Vice Chancellor Prize and published in its 2019 anthology.
"Grace" and "What I Carry" were previously published in Finally, the Moon (Stephen F Austin UP, 2017).
"St. Anthony of Padua, 1750, Spanish, Unknown Sculptor" was originally published in a small ekphrastic anthology, Poetry and Prose for the Phoenix Art Museum
(Four Chambers Press, 2015).
Natalie Rae-Fern Koh
Contributor Biography
A student, Natalie Rae-Fern Koh enjoys studying the humanities and pursues poetry, music and art on the side. As a member of the community, she hopes to use her skills to effect positive change and engage her peers in issues pertinent to society and the heart.
Devotional
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Sunlight makes the body bare,
lays our hearts transparent before all.
Like the frosted panels of a church, skin
is but a thin veil over our hollowness.
In the empty vase of the body we fester in
sin; we soak in our bitter sick.
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A cry for wholeness sounds something like this:
when worship chafes against the throat;
when we lay prayers down like tiles
in a snaking and eternal mosaic;
when confessions flow out in the dark
Like a hymn: slow and honest.
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Flight
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The past two years have been war
against this Judas of a body.
On Christmas each family gathers,
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huddled in nests spun from the warmth of
stories. Today is the day they tell the Nativity.
We have lost control over how it is told;
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it is stale like the prayer we offer up.
This year, there is no room for a shiver of sorrow.
We do not repent. There are no surprises here.
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The Maker’s love easily slips from one’s gaze,
passes through the wind. I flounder forward
like flotsam in a tempest, searching for
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words to stitch together into wings
for my heart to make its way upwards,
to soar closer to the sun.
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But who says birds are any more free than we are?
Do I forget freedom
in order to fly?
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Author's Note:
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"Flight" first appeared in CAP 30th Anniversary Commemorative Publication.