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


          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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