a return

submerging them in the quick flowing river
there's saint john dipping all the boys 
in water. he knocks on my window & tells me
that he has to make me clean. he munches on crickets
& leaves crumbs of legs & antennae. i am so very old here.
i am tired of having to bathe all the time--
rubbing soap between my fingers till the lather
turns to clouds in the steam. i am a maker 
of clouds. i want to let him clean me. his fingers
sticky with honey. saint john is always there 
by the river that flowers & bursts. a rupture
in underneath the building. the river gushes 
in the basement. there are drownings-- not like
how they tossed witches in the river to see if
they'd float. no this is just john holding boys
underwater & instructing them to hold their breath.
some boys try to go without him. my father & my father's father
& my father's father's father all drowned.
water behind their eyes. whole fresh currents
& crayfish & rocks to be overturned. yes there's
saint john pulling brown dead leaves from their mouths.
every body is made of only water. what kind of
body do you want to be? i tell saint john
i'd rather be a tide pool. i'd rather be full
of starfish-- watch their limbs get sliced off
& grow back. what does it mean to return 
to the father? what does it mean to need 
cleaning. i'm told we came here through 
a great river but i only believe in this 
present moment. i tell saint john that 
i don't want another baptism. that i don't believe
that it will save me or any of the other boys.
saint john weeps & his water flows down
the staircase to my apartment. i would like
to live less & less & less-- a decrescendo
like slowly turning off a faucet. 
i'm washing my head in the sink. there's no
water here anymore. none of the spigots 
are yielding. i want to live wet. dripping.
a source. not a geyser but a gentler releasing
like water from an open wound. all these boys
with their faces dunked under. all there boys
not me. i want a god with fingers
to pull through my hair. washing each strand.
where is the careful scrubbing. no i'm here
& i am waiting for it to rain again
to wash all the leaves down the street
& all the chocolate bar wrappers & cigarette cartons.
there's saint john laying face up 
in the yard behind my house. i can't keep
doing this. i cup my hands & catch rain.
pour the water over my own head. 
his voice tells me not to stop--
not to ever stop.