Baptism
A narrative poem.
I can see the purple:
necklace there, around your neck:
the rosary now has it, had it —
I had it, the swells and ridges
under my finger — nails; a thin plastic
cross and crucifixion — I think, I
still
at least can feel.
I take it off, bounce it gentle-sweet
upon my palm; like a Sunday mass
the wafers are bittersweet-death warmed
over, the wine touches the throat
a purple rose water.
This is my Sunday book.
My first journal entry today:
It was me.
I, I who raised you up,
up on my shoulders — you sit there high above
me, within the water and the salt; and I wonder —
I wander away from that like a thief:
but I know that it was why you never learned
to swim on your own, under your own butterfly strokes and power;
but I know now,
it was me,
who set you down firmly, down
in your wooden pew, pressing fingers into your neck to hold you
there where you did not want to be.
It was me,
It was me
who forced you to my communion—
I know now you never wanted that, the wafer and the wine;
I know now that you were too damn young, too young.
You sat there quietly, an upside-down frown on your face;
You sat there the whole time we took communion with our God.
I know you saw our flowers and laces
of so many colors —
the purple and red fruit on our altar,
You escaped all of that; and smiled.
Only smiled.
This is my Sunday book.
My journal entry for last week:
It was me.
I sit here in my solid, antique weathered-oak writing chair:
it is morning, the day after,
it is morning, and I type these pages into nothing.
I have an old bottle of wine,
I found it tucked away in the cellar —
with the casks.
I have a bottle of wine
and an old argument:
a harsh word,
a harsher word,
or worse this bittersweet silence.
It was me:
who drove you to the CCD school program, forced
that belief down your throat, that throat.
This is my Sunday book.
My journal entry for tomorrow:
It was me.
I remember, sitting there on a muddy bank —
it was a purple sunset
in the fields by the river’s bending —
it was after a long day spent
just floating, bobbing, and swinging —
I dropped you off at the river’s mouth
and drove downstream to wait for you to return.
You would float, just float, float like we used to float; down
and then we would talk
but we didn’t.
Ever.
This is my Sunday book.
My journal entry for yesterday:
It was me.
I never tried to hurt you,
even though I drank a lot:
I would make jokes, on a whim; without a care or careful second,
I never meant to hurt you —
I didn’t see the dark of the letters you hid in
your own book.
Perhaps it was your Tuesday book,
I know now you hated Sunday.
I want to write you words,
loving and hope-filled; I want to cry out prayers, and read you psalms
still
even though I know you would not read them —
turning away with a hidden smile.
This is my Sunday book.
My journal entry for last year:
It was me.
It was me.
It was me, who talked and never listened —
It was me who talked you into taking that leatherworking class:
I did the same thing when I was young.
I made a black leather cigarette case-like sleave to hold cardboard boxes
for my grandfather — who once made a leather knife sheath — himself.
You made a belt.
You made a gray-leather belt,
You made it so thick and strong.
You could hold up the world with that belt, I think.
You carved it with letters,
“For Father”, it said.
This is my Sunday book.
My journal entry for now:
It was me.
I can see the purple.
John R. Hampton
MaggotsX @ 2024.06.11
