Gina Williams

DEAR CORONER,

I am a wrecked body without a name
but you will know me soon,
will plunge your lamplit tools deep                                 into my blood-spangled

national holiday of exit wounds.

For five more days a machine will breathe me
alive as my mother fingers a blue-beaded rosary in the dark.
When six cops held me down, crushed my thorax            with baton and knee

for more than ten minutes, childhood mirages flashed—

A confetti layer cake rainbowed with sprinkles, five candles. 
One for each day left. 
The scent of                                                                  father’s aftershave:

             all sweetness, spice, struggle.

I cried for Daddy at the end,
begged for help,
but he arrived                                                                too late,

will be the one who pulls the plug.

Perhaps dream and memory will pool 
with brain and heart fluid in your drain pan
and you will know me then                                            despite my bashed-in face,

right leg blown to a stump, hollowed-out eyes.

Like the time I finally fell in love and she kissed me 
on the bridge as stars reflected in the lake below
like gape-mouthed fish wishful                                      for a small taste

            of the last beautiful thing left on earth.

Gina Williams is a freelance journalist, gardener, former wildland firefighter, and visual artist. The author of An Unwavering Horizon, a full-length collection of poetry published in 2020 (Finishing Line Press), her writing and visual art have been featured most recently by Moss, River Teeth, FRAMES Magazine, J. Mane Gallery, Electric Lit, Carve, and The Sun, among others. She holds degrees in journalism and strategic communication from the University of Oregon. Gina lives and creates near Portland, Oregon with her best friend and fellow poet, husband Brad Garber.

Learn more about Gina and her work at https://ginamariewilliams.com/