by Kyle Williams
In the theatre of war
I am an outsider
I have a non speaking role
I search for a place of pilgrimage
a shrine of memory
like a barnacle clung to the underside
of history
In my journeys
I see much disappearing
the collective memory
like a wave of oil on the ocean
a chemical spread
of amnesia through the continents
a problem with lines
is that they are often misspoken —
actors forget,
much is improvised in the dark
and some were never given lines at all.
but, I said to him,
when the red curtain shut
on his victory:
there are graves
underneath the highways
and sprawl
the tears of your great
grandchildren,
is the water served
at the tables of kings.
About the Author:
Kyle Williams is a poet whose work explores themes of identity, conflict, and the human condition. With a BA in English from the University of the West Indies and a MFA at Miami University, Kyle is dedicated to honing his craft and engaging with literature’s broader conversations. His poems have been featured in Rowayat and Lucky Jefferson. Find Kyle’s work and thoughts on Instagram at @kyle_williams_876.