"Viscerally particular," Williams's debut chapbook explores masculinity, aging, and spirituality through the body's architecture.

House of Bones

“They Say Time Will Tell, But I've Got a Brick and a Storm Cellar That Say Time Better Keep Its Mouth Shut"

After I boil this carton of eggs, then I will sleep.
After the rolling boil smooths to a line, after I peel away


their shells, then I will call it what it is.
This attempt at forgiveness.

"Call It What It Is"

"Homecoming" and "My Son Tried Skydiving Today and I Didn't Like It"

When Absalom hung by his hair

	in the twisted limbs of the deepwoods—

		too many spears piercing his chest—


the murmuring creatures emerged from the bloodweed

		and fern to see him turning silently

		above them like drying lavender, like a sway

​“What The King's Son Knows of Royalty"

Not Even Robert Stack Could Figure Out Why I’m Here, So You Can Quit Asking” and “I’ve Always Been a Sucker for Good Pick Slide” 

I pressed closed fists to carpet as I watched the bullets 

rip a wooden wall to splinters. All smoke & ricochet— 

all hate & lead teeth chewing through barrel & stale air,  

passing through captain & crew—

 

affecting no one.

“What I Misunderstood When Captain Kirk Double-Kicked Wyatt Earp"

"Velvet

"Gun-Adept" and "When Summer Seemed Longer"

"Cantaloupe"

"The Clubhouse"

Screening Test

"As Lazarus,” and “Self-Portrait as Sin Eater”

"Self-Portrait as Seam Sewer"

"Self-Portrait as the Second Son" and "Compromises"

Look here           at this cathedral arch 
I’ve wrought for us with beak and talon.  
Look at this shelter I’ve culled
 
from castaway plastic. See?  
I’ve painted its walls with berry juice. I’ve adorned 
its grounds with every scrap of blue...

Self-Portrait as Bower Bird

Sometimes you want to sit across from your mother,
across her kitchen table & occupy the same space
as the dust cloud of white flour, the pie crusts,
the Vaseline glass, the vineyard in the wallpaper.

The scones—you know—are in the oven.
Maybe...

You Remember This

Violence never belonged to me—
it slipped my fists as if sifting
through a sandbox sieve. It signaled disaster
like the blown bicycle spoke before
the sudden collapse.
But it belonged to K.

Ian C. Williams

Books

Selected work