Poetry By Amy Williams

      GörlitzPhotography CC




Susanville California, 1995

Twenty-nine cent Hamburger Tuesday, thrilling
when dad was holding that white-greased bag.
What mustard. What beef. What gorging hands.
What church. “Watch this,” he said, ate three fries
at a time. I remember thick fingers, his thick
howl when I shoved fries into my small mouth.
It felt so good to be getting.

He built fences, my father, had rough
hands. He was a prison guard, my father had slick
polished shoes. Of course there was tenderness.
Of course there was care.
I made donuts from scratch and he said
“I’m proud of you.” At the feed store he said
I could have anything I ever wanted.

I chose two goslings. Three pullets. Cotton
babes in my grasp and I was loving their
globed bodies, that dusty plume. I sat in the coop
out back, watched the day sun move, watched the day
hawks move. I was giving warmth, giving food.
Most kids went to school on weekdays and I was
making vows like I’ll never hurt you. Unconditional

love. Protection love. Wire mesh in the yard
love, I’d dig it with a trowel, with my own
hands. This forgiveness love, bury
your claws in my flesh love, tell me I’m dirt
love throw a brick at my head because you’re right
you’re right you’re right love I’m not
expecting a thing love, not even talking back this time
​
because (and this is true)
that’s the best way to get them to love you.

​

Amy Williams is a writer and educator based in New Delhi. Her poems have appeared in West Trade Review, Rust + Moth, Bodega Magazine, The Shore, Redivider, Sweet Tree Review and Contrary Magazine.