The body is heavy as any unwanted thing
but thrown in the river it rises.
Cuffed wrist-to-wrist to me
we sit on the mud shore
watch us come bobbing back up again.
Close my eyes.
Skin will do what skin does
and keep the water out;
flesh will keep fresh for a while.
Somewhere, the body
is holy is home
is warm-blooded gift
upturned wrists
a good meal when you’ve just come in from the cold.