2003-07-17

2003-07-17 - 3:43 p.m.

Outdoor Shower

Crusted with dried brack, dusted with/
sand, shaking from the cold Atlantic,/
hair gristled with crystals, tangled with the/
jellied palps of wrack�just step on this/
slatted rack, pull the iron/
handle of the forged world toward you./
The sluice courses, down your shin,/
in a swirling motion, milk smoke, the/
silky rush of fresh water, supple and alkaline./
Lids clenched, you reach for the small/
oil torso of soap, run it/
along your limbs and whirl it over the points of the/
three-point shower star of sex: /
arm-pit, arm-pit, sex. Then the gritty/
dial of your face, lather it, bring it/
under the coursing, and open your mouth,/
stone-sweet well-water,/
and then the head,/
delve in it so that sand around the scalp/
dances like the ions at the edge of matter,/
and the shampoo, milk soldier,/
take her by the shoulders and pour the pale eel on your head. Then feel them going:/
salp, chitin, diatom, dulse, the/
blind ones of the ocean. Rinse until/
it pours down your head like water, the dark/
descendent pelf of the land. Now open your eyes�/
green lawn, silver pond,/
grey dune, blue Atlantic,/
the simple fields of God, liquid and solid./
Turn and turn in hot water,/
column of heat in the cool wind/
and sunny air, squeeze your eyes and then/
open then again�look, it is still there,/
the world as heaven, your body at the edge of it./

--Sharon Olds

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