Baptism

I do not want to be born anew
I do not want to be washed clean

Stepping past the broken reeds
my toes are curled
my path is silt

I will not be reborn

Rude warmth of freshwater
jellyfishes my gown
I swell with the shame
of pissed-in swimming pools

I will never be reborn

He towers out of waters
Rugged, regal,
with hands splayed, saying
‘Come, my daughter,’

as icy currents part my legs
and dirt-eels squirm at my ankles

I will never be washed clean

Ruddy from a day of soul-saving
The type of man who burns most easily
With sunflowers for eyes:
flecks of gold
on a sky of blue-hazel

When my man takes me in arms
I want to cry out
There is too much silence
In the lapping of black waters,
blue-reflecting

My hand trails over lake-skin –
a benediction
or farewell to this world of things

The dull fire of auburn trees
The swirl of white smoke in cold air
A host of white robes, newly blessed,
beam and clasp their hands at me

Before this day is up,
I’ll see his face
the slow movement of priestly lips
and a man’s tongue,
pinkly curling over teeth

The stolen nose,
the blessing murmur,
and the violence of plunged head
My lungs are filled with cold filth

I think I’ll feel him above me forever
His face, swimming in broken sunlight
and that watery panic
before the break of surface
the clinging of wet gown to breast

No cleaner,
just panting for my life.
 

Laura Elizabeth Woollett lives in Melbourne, Australia. She is currently writing her honours thesis on Petrarch and the Marquis de Sade. Her poetry has appeared in Autumn Sky, Mascara, Rabbit and others.