Resurrection, Body and Soul

Before bedtime, shriveling old Edith
sheds clothing to bathe
while shivering old Josh
bundled on Adirondack chair
watches, guards her.

Join her if you want. Lake water
jolts the heart, firms the flesh.
Ask Edith.

Waves slosh. Owls call.
Edith beckons, laughs. Come, jump.
Don’t worry how you look
because I look worse and anyway
it’s dark and nobody’s peeking.

Swim among tiny fish and silent mussels,
a Milky Way of freckles, head to toe.
Soft clouds of body hair.
Ghosts of breath from your lips.
Loons howl—this air is haunted.
Your body, the lake, the night are all one.

Clears the brain, says Edith.
Keeps you fresh, keeps you wild.
Restores the soul each night—
to a saint, to a child.

Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints. He appreciates wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His website is joecottonwood.com.