Imagine now the red waters,
the boiling flow cooled with time,
watchful centaurs long gone,
tyrants and warmongers mingling
among the crowd, unrecognized,
souls gathering on the banks
for solemn rituals of cleansing,
white baptismal gowns sheer
and glowing against the late sun,
the leering elders and sneering
passers by watching as our bare
feet step gingerly into pink
shallows, the flow leaping to catch
the hem, seeping readily into dry
white fabric, now bleeding, floating
on the surface as our toes grope
for rocks on the river’s bottom,
chills climbing up our legs,
creeping to our shocked loins,
our pricked-up waists and chests, until
we lie back in the preacher’s arms,
immersed finally in the thick
flood, holding our breath with closed
eyes, not seeing the mimicking
hand in the air above, pretending
to make the holy sign, pressing
us down—shivering dark, frightened,
suspended, listening—just long
enough so that we rise gasping,
dark and dripping, the heavy gown
clinging to our dyed shapes, wild eyes
turned up, searching the dimming skies,
waiting desperately for saving
waters to rain down and cleanse us
until we stand upon the shore
spotless again, glistening white.