BAPTISM

8 9 R B A P T I S M G R E G W R E N N Him, too, I love, the boy behind me waiting his turn beside the river. Really it’s a creek. An at-times-stinky rivulet that has come to a full stop. Really it’s a mirror. No, metal polished and polished until mirror. No, the reflected world is tempera on particle board and you’d think the painter, also a bachelor, a nerdy messenger, had seen the world for the first time, with the freshest eyes. My nights are dull. Washing dishes, sweeping the screened-in porch, I stumble over the lessons. The boy could help me remember them, that catechism borne out of direct contact – or did I imagine it? – with unnameables, beautifuls, pulsing then absolutely still. And teach me about light as particle and wave, about generosity? To steam artichokes 9 0 W R E N N Y on the stovetop in a strange metal basket? We’re getting clean. The water’s cold. (A dove follows us like a predator drone.) After we dry o√, we’ll drive to the desert and Dolly’ll be singing. We’ll go in without shame. The angels gawking at us won’t follow. ...