Echo Chamber

John Sibley Williams

          For my mother

My back against the flat field.
All the arms I have ever known
constellate around me,
countable and temporary stars
that only shine when staring
into the darkness around them.

There is a reason I am here
waiting for the grass to consume me,
cradled by your hands your light

yet even this intimacy
is called remoteness.

No conversation between planets,
just a silent pull a silent push
which mean the same thing
when orbiting a body
that is not there.


And heaven 
were it any different
than waiting in a field 
for the absent
to return

and hell 
were it any different;

there is a reason you are here
cradled by my hands my light—

the dead still have too much to lose.