A poem by Jessi Harrison
I’d like you to take a bath
In my mind.
I’ll gather up buckets of rainwater.
Warm them on the stove.
Fill a clawfoot tub to the brink.
The room will be in a deserted
house in the middle of town –
with hardwood floors that squeak.
And large bay windows, opened,
with cobwebs hanging outside.
There will be no blinds to let down,
nor curtains to close.
The bath will take place at midnight –
the room only lit by a harvest
moon swimming low in a hauntingly
dark, but clear sky. There will be no
shooting stars. Not one single
threat of a cloud.
You will wear the earrings I gave
you. Leave your clothes crumpled
on a cracked tile floor. Submerge
every inch of your six foot three
frame. Open your eyes underwater.
Hold your breath while counting
When you feel like bursting –
come up slowly. Gasping. Washed clean.
While letting the tub drain –
in the still silence of revelation –
you’ll watch the water tornado
down. Dry yourself off in the whispering wind
And finally, fathom
Featured image (modified) CC0: StockSnap