Baptism

I help with her Sunday morning shower

while she descends down the living mountain

forgetting how to warm the water.

She is looking for a way to God’s womb.

She is moving seventy birthdays back

to the naked trust of being held up,

almost allowing herself to slip, soap sliding down

her face, finding still opened eyes.

She forgets what a grown woman should know,

I remind her to wash her breasts,

between her legs, the loose ends

of her wrinkled skin and we become two voices.

Steam blurs the lines to form a body’s ghost,

an apple- overripe, perched

on hurting hips, feet tired of standing.

She remembers the routine after rinsing,

the slow drying off, memory reminding her

to stay here, survive time a little longer,

a handprint on the bathroom window,

letting us both see outside this need.

I can see a stark reflection first,

I am young and holding steady her arm,

she is trying to dress herself as age becomes faith,

the baptist of new balance and direction.

by Amy Bohlman (sadly FUSE is no longer in print)