A poem by Jessi Harrison

I’d like you to take a bathIn 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 desertedhouse 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 harvestmoon swimming low in a hauntinglydark, but clear sky. There will be noshooting stars. Not one singlethreat of a cloud.You will wear the earrings I gaveyou. Leave your clothes crumpledon a cracked tile floor. Submergeevery inch of your six foot threeframe. Open your eyes underwater.Hold your breath while countingThe seconds.Minutes.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 tornadodown. Dry yourself off in the whispering windAnd finally, fathomyour ferocity. Featured image (modified) CC0: StockSnap