BAPTISM

 

The preacher pinches my nostrils between

thumb and forefinger, pushes me

backward, hard, into the chlorine sting

of the pool, its deep, still water immediately

closing in around me like a second flesh,

heavy and resolute. Once, then again,

I go under, the former self of my childhood

swimming away, an embryo in reverse.

The age of reason, against every obstacle,

has found me. I am old enough now,

my mother reminds me, to be held accountable,

old enough to suffer those unrelenting

flames through eternity, for lack of belief,

unintended blasphemy, or simple understanding,

Far overhead, the sun blazes on, unblinking,

the world surrounding it seemingly

turned upside down, wheeling, tumbling,

while here below, sudden slashes

of light pierce my uncertain periphery.

My instinct is to reach for it, to kick, flail,

break away; my instinct is to save

myself, to simply not drown -- as I feel I am --

whether by water, wine, or blood of lamb.

Then, as if it were unexpected, I am

pulled back into the world, sputtering, gasping,

the welcome shock of oxygen like pinpricks

to the lungs, as if I had been running for miles,

my first steps back on land uncertain.

This world is not my home, they are singing,

so happy to only be passing through.

But I don't know what could be better than

this -- the earth that accepts us again

and again, sinners to the last,

the one on which we write our songs, the one

that sings them back to us in return.