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About this poet

William Brewer was born and raised in West Virginia. He is the author of I Know Your Kind (Milkweed Editions, 2017), winner of the National Poetry Series. He is currently a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University and lives in Oakland, California.

Naloxone

Do you hear that? All the things
I meant to do are burnt spoons
 
hanging rom the porch like chimes,
Do you have some wind? Just a hit
 
and was the grass always this vocal?
A hit and the blades start sharpening
 
in the sun. I wear a belt
because my pants don’t fit.
 
My pants don’t fit because I wear
the belt. I can tell you how it tastes.
 
Tannin. Heaven. Is it May already?
As onetime owner of my own
 
private spring, I can say
it’s overrated. Remember? Someone
 
found me in a coffee shop bathroom
after I’d overdone it
 
and carried me like a feed sack
to the curb. As they brought me back,
 
they said, the poppies on my arms
bruised red petals.
 
They said, He’s your savior.
But let’s not get carried away.
 
Let’s stop comparing everything
to wings. Have you ever even felt
 
like you’re going to not die
forever? It’s terrifying.
 

From I Know Your Kind: Poems by William Brewer. Copyright © by William Brewer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

From I Know Your Kind: Poems by William Brewer. Copyright © by William Brewer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

William Brewer

William Brewer

William Brewer is the author of I Know Your Kind (Milkweed Editions, 2017).

by this poet

poem
Only in the slow braid of a dream
can you study want and need, their
patience, their cruelty. Amid the thin
trunks of their campfires’ smoke,
I watched the hours shed
their polished armor, clean and
sheathe their blades, water their
stallions,
poem

   Storms are generous.
                                      Something so easy to surrender to, sitting by the window,
 and then you step out into the garden you were so bored of,
                 so bored of you hated it,

2
poem
Dear Mr. So-and-So with my blood on his clothes,
the Internet says a dollop of my spit
will take the stain right out.
 
I’m generous like that—I give myself away
to erase any sign that I was here.
What’s more brutal:
 
A never-ending