T H E   L I T   L I N E S   O F   Y O U R   P A L M   [ I N  T H E  O N L Y   D A R K   W E   K N O W   O F   T H E   R O O M ]–Poem by Michael Wasson

If I trace the lines of your palm
                                  with only the tip

of my tongue: what does that say

about the light
                           that now reflects

as a mirror: as a slow crack
              in the life-warmed arrival

of morning: our bodies, no, our mouths left

spent: emptied of their surrenders

& you say your touch
                                  is inside

my every last second: like a breath

charging the architecture
                                             of bone
to move: to smear

the wet light
                       of the body means to come

& kneel before
                           its darkness

until each stained kiss I scatter
                                         over your skin

begins to brighten &—without

another trace—throbs.

Michael Wasson’s poems appear in American Poets, Kenyon Review, Poetry Northwest, Drunken Boat, Narrative, and Bettering American Poetry. He is nimíipuu from the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho.

Top image: Étienne Léopold Trouvelot / Astronomical Drawings / publicdomainreview.org