RUMPUS ORIGINAL POETRY: THREE POEMS BY MICHAEL WASSON
T H E S E S W A L L O W E D P R A Y E R S A S C R E A T I O N M Y T H
– wáaqo’ ’óykalana titóoqana hinéesmux̣sin ’ilcwéew’cixnim.
& yet for ages we’ve been holding on
to this silence as any child born I learn to move
these forsaken hands along the damp walls of this god-
less body as if I too am your animal the only torch
this monstrous heartbeat rippling everywhere & no-
where I reach towards a blurred opening to the other
room meaning a life-sized rupture left vibrating
like decades around a skeleton listen—the xím xím
xím of the animals twists into your body was made
to always hold you in place & this you has come so far
so why not disappear just this once the ink
drowning the eyes the bloodstream carrying the body
on & into the white noise of translation & soon
this you tears open the brief sáw between its own ribcage
under a newer light a fresh fracture like softened ear
bones ringing after another heavy rain of holy
gunfire have I gone too far? I pray for I might enter back
to when we were all once singing láw láw láw before
the jaws of ’ilcwéew’cix devoured us as though a city
now vanished we who built its bright-white cathedrals
of bone & hear the dark—unlike any other whispers
of our faceless gods buried into the flesh every exit
a fire escape the flexed diaphragm a pupil’s black-
lit aperture capturing the muzzled breath of our beloved
dead & yet through the dead—here, your body inside
the body—is the only way out isn’t it? you desperate
desperate animals run until you enter the earth alive
you are trust me.
Y O U R S T I L L – L I F E I S N O L O N G E R S T I L L
Your hands bright red as the skin / of the red delicious
we shredded / to taste what’s closest / to the core / this
isn’t the blood / of our newest ghosts / the snow
touching the skin / of only the living / will become
beads / of breakable sky / shiver, my dear— / for we are
soon to be so / gone / this same land is smearing / into
America / my hair smelling / of river water—is this
an omen? a telling? a foreshadow? now tell me / we’ll make it
to the end / of our unanswerable lives / tell me how / the cities
will make our bodies / beautiful enough to forever / be locked
RUMPUS ORIGINAL POETRY: THREE POEMS BY MICHAEL WASSON
T H E S E S W A L L O W E D P R A Y E R S A S C R E A T I O N M Y T H
– wáaqo’ ’óykalana titóoqana hinéesmux̣sin ’ilcwéew’cixnim.
& yet for ages we’ve been holding on
to this silence as any child born I learn to move
these forsaken hands along the damp walls of this god-
less body as if I too am your animal the only torch
this monstrous heartbeat rippling everywhere & no-
where I reach towards a blurred opening to the other
room meaning a life-sized rupture left vibrating
like decades around a skeleton listen—the xím xím
xím of the animals twists into your body was made
to always hold you in place & this you has come so far
so why not disappear just this once the ink
drowning the eyes the bloodstream carrying the body
on & into the white noise of translation & soon
this you tears open the brief sáw between its own ribcage
under a newer light a fresh fracture like softened ear
bones ringing after another heavy rain of holy
gunfire have I gone too far? I pray for I might enter back
to when we were all once singing láw láw láw before
the jaws of ’ilcwéew’cix devoured us as though a city
now vanished we who built its bright-white cathedrals
of bone & hear the dark—unlike any other whispers
of our faceless gods buried into the flesh every exit
a fire escape the flexed diaphragm a pupil’s black-
lit aperture capturing the muzzled breath of our beloved
dead & yet through the dead—here, your body inside
the body—is the only way out isn’t it? you desperate
desperate animals run until you enter the earth alive
you are trust me.
Y O U R S T I L L – L I F E I S N O L O N G E R S T I L L
Your hands bright red as the skin / of the red delicious
we shredded / to taste what’s closest / to the core / this
isn’t the blood / of our newest ghosts / the snow
touching the skin / of only the living / will become
beads / of breakable sky / shiver, my dear— / for we are
soon to be so / gone / this same land is smearing / into
America / my hair smelling / of river water—is this
an omen? a telling? a foreshadow? now tell me / we’ll make it
to the end / of our unanswerable lives / tell me how / the cities
will make our bodies / beautiful enough to forever / be locked
behind a glass cage / with our broken names / show my tongue
the only way / to dance until the whorl / of dark silk below
your belly- / button is as slick as the pink / of our animal
tongues / give me / the directions to a place / bursting with
mosquitoes—full of / welts & terrors you’ll always know / we’ll know
the coming / of someone’s jesus let’s call hunger / dear,
it’s the end / of winter so / sleep next to me until / the black
under our eyelids / is no longer the thinnest slip of skin
but the mid- / night of a country growing / before us
tell me this / will never ruin us / god, tell me / please.
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