All labyrinths, like those first fires
rising over a red New Mexico sky,
were intended to trap their creators.
Even in their insatiable hunger, all
monsters are scared of our conquest.
When the lights go on & everything
we’ve made flickers & flares & ful-
fills its promise, we find ourselves
to have always been the scorpion on
the turtle’s back. The river is deep,
inescapable. All our wings are made
for burning.
John Sibley Williams is the author of the forthcoming collections “As One Fire Consumes Another” (winner of the Orison Poetry Prize) and “Skin Memory” (winner of the Backwaters Prize). He is the editor of The Inflectionist Review.
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This article appears in the 19 Sep 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn’s next war