South Crestone Creek Cold Plunge

The dog fidgets and yawns

nervously as we undress at pool’s edge.

He hovers near, shrinks the circle of his wander

to the pool, that small circumference

that will swallow us to shoulders, trembling.

He who only steps into the stream with four fur feet

to lap up bites of water like a god, can’t comprehend

why we evolved to bare skin, crave cold water,

the runoff of peaks that whiten when it rains.

46 degrees, the laser thermometer reads.

We groan with the pleasure of impending suffering.

Step in, submerge fast without hesitation

as my daughter taught, our familiar breathy gasps

stripped of sex to serve survival. The mouth

of the pool pours in just beyond my lover’s shoulder.

I take in the animal of his mouth—quivering, open,

pulling air through chattering teeth and lips

stretched back in grimace, face tight, panicked

pupils, and calm myself before he does, before

we slip into an inner space that makes room

for existential threat and braces the brave body.

The dog whimpers on pool’s edge, looming protector

over shoulders, senses our mortality, eyes

darting with fear while our skin numbs and burns,

hearts slow, words reduce to syllables and skip

like silent light over the surface. For a moment

I consider my cells sloughing, our commingled cells,

riding this icy water into the great sea beneath

the desert out there, microscopic offerings to a watershed

that will feed no rivers any time soon or ever.