by Jordan Williams

Sunday morning, quiet as toast.

November air thrusts
into my lungs like a dictator
and I understand why
the trees make ritualistic sacrifices
of their beautiful children.

Last night’s slumber haunts my face, my hair
my expectation of the next twelve hours.

When your calm body appears
I think I know what King David looked like—
not unafraid, but apathetic to fear

blessed by God with shepherd’s eyes
to see far in cases of living and dying
and deep to distinguish which is worse.

Jordan Williams

Jordan Williams is an emerging poet who explores everyday life through metaphor and ambiguity. Her pieces examine the connection between people, manifest in togetherness or separation. She enjoys poetry that invites the reader on a journey that begins one place and ends somewhere else, especially emotionally.

Artist: Cal Carmichael 





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