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HOT POT
by Kim Bridgford
A natural jacuzzi, heated by the earth,
The hot pot makes you realize the line
You’re sitting in, half evening air, half birth,
Transition state in which you half recline,
Half hold aware, that in this heated water,
You are remade, half lava and half daughter,
The steam rising in a metamorphosis
Of who you were before this birthing’s kiss.
This place is not where drowning starts to call,
But where your inhibitions start to fall.
The hot pot is seduction, finds the place
Between the body’s heat, your upturned face,
Reveals the split horizon of the air.
Ophelia would have lived if she’d been there.
Published in Poem