sacred water

Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.

We don't know it at first
but the clean rushing earth-blood
swirling around us
pulls us
purifies us
cools us
awakens us.

We put the pepper of watercress on our tongues
and chew on wild mint.
We debate over sedges
and slide holy stones into our pockets.

We watch for rattlesnakes
and sinkholes that could suck us
into the bowels of the mother
and end our lives
by filling our lungs with hers.

When we are not watching
the water sweeps us away
opens our eyes, our hearts burst.

Beneath the big trees
Or by twisted juniper
I pull off my shirt
to be submerged.
I want to be
saturated.
I want to absorb the medicine
flowing
crashing
slapping around me.
To pull it through my flesh
Throw it up against my face
Blessing myself, water up over my head
Breathing the water through my arms and legs
like our ancestors before they left
the water for good.

Jennie asks to take my picture;
she's drifting in a daze
Stifled with beauty
Wordless with the heady mixture
of scalding sunlit air and
the cold spring.

The heat of the desert sets into your flesh
like a burn that won't go away.
In the sacred water places
We are reborn
rebirthed
pushed through the canal
bathed in the fluids of life
amniotic
The burn is soothed.

Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.

We climb over fences
Step carefully around hot stones
or lie on them flat like lizards.
We move in the water slowly
Naiads in a dream
as ancient as the water itself.
We reenter the womb.

Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.

We are safe in the sacred waters,
but strong medicine carries risk
and we are always
in danger of drowning.

To show respect, I cut off
some of my hair
And leave it in the wet sand.

When we are able to pull ourselves away
we are quiet.
There is nothing to say
after you remember that you're alive.