Outline
Michael Wasson
This morning
grandpa does magic
a fire for our
wrecked bodies
& my brother still
sleeps on
the kitchen floor
his blanket
smells of wood
his breathing
like that of a slowed heart
expanding shrinking
him dreaming
what else but
reservation dreams
the bullet
in his soft fist
held like a child’s
first turtle rattle
fleshless
undone of living
filled with
the black shells
of baby clams
about to shake
✼
O forgive me
& let me wash away
this big chalk outline
around his body
with our faucet hose
don’t move
please O please?
I don’t
but want to
then think blacktop
& playground
two bodies
filling each other
both warming cooling
which is it?
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