Bodies Lit
I hang a photo
to the moon
Before there was
the clack of flash the plastic camera
processing
your skin
brown as dying pines filled
with nothing inside them
the cockleburs
and pitch
stuck to your bootlaces
a boy
sitting next to you
your temples lining your face
And uncle said once
we scrape brain onto the hide
to cure
wáaqo’ kuum wéye
But the white moon keeps
your polaroid
from developing
Just some holey ghost
his image his son
*
Mom kisses my forehead
twice
blows out
both candles behind my eyes
I’m still awake
moonlight dripping
from the ceiling
When I sleep
I’ll be
dead but warm
*
Somewhere in this
blacked out light
my brother and I are
learning how
to cry all over again
My mother a pile of ash
waiting to catch fire
again
we breathe
on her skin
and we’re
reborn.
Michael Wasson is nimíipuu from the Nez Perce Reservation and lives in Sato-machi, Japan. His recent poems will appear in Waxwing, Poetry Kanto, and Red Ink International.