Another Confession

— Michael Wasson

The pupil dilates & buds
open wide for the sun falling over

the scorched earth: is all I need
a body so warm I’ll mistake the light

in the room for an old fire: we say
’alatam’áal when it’s winter

& we need to remember
our hands: slip a finger inside

my mouth: is humming like this
a prayer for your blood

vessels throbbing: or a self-
immolation: there’s a word I am

trying to tell you while the dead
skin melts into me: like ghosts

unable to confess their sins
I gather myself: & I whisper

in the ear: & I finally come
clean: to tell you what lies

beyond hunger: where we taste
& are blessed beyond this

sentence: what I don’t mean
is that you are delicious: I call

to you: ’ahímkasayqsa in that
you are in the motion now—

our blossoms torn—of being
so beautiful in the mouth.

Read more from Issue No. 8 or share on Facebook and Twitter.