by MARIAH WHITTSEY
Baptism was a choice by the time I came around.
I could choose To be delivered from Sin Or the steady
build up of Sin The looming that often plagues God’s
estranged children The children who sleep during
sermons Who can flip their tongue to say god damn,
but can’t speak in tongue.
The Gold rimmed,
rectangular pool in the church had
Carribean-blue water, A product
of food coloring Not the tears of
Jesus or his blood Just food
Everything looked as unreal as god
if I had let the man submerge me in water
The puppet of the Holy Ghost, who
believes his strings godly
Would the water proclaim my breath a Sin? My
ethics, Beliefs, The prayers I sent without
knowing the receiver; All swirling in the water
like black snakes
Would the Holy Water turn hostile?
Sense the lies in my belief and
infiltrate my lungs?
Would I rise from the water like a Poseidon—
Part the seas of wrong in the world, and walk
like I had been renewed? Would I be
Is a baptism anything more than a pretend
cleansing? A bath without soap The act of trying to
become clean Is the point in trying to become clean?
Is to be saved, another lie lined in gold? Is the
too-blue water as Holy as His blood?