Lake Baptism
My white hand-me-down sneakers,
the slick red clay that smeared them
when I slipped, the laughter of the twins
at my expense, the stench of bream,
the men in jon boats who chase that stench,
Daddy’s old vee neck undershirt
your baptismal gown, the rusted
barbed wire and deer tracks
on this island, reminding us that
buried under this manmade lake
are thousands of acres of old farmland,
and that white-tailed deer can swim
long distances, freshwater mussels
lodged in the sand, some closed,
some split wide open, the smell
of gasoline from cigarette boats
and pontoon boats and jetskis,
submerged beer cans with faded labels,
lost lures winking in the shallows,
Mama’s Sunday dress and lipstick,
Daddy’s Sunday shoes and silk tie
stained with coffee, the pastor’s folded
white handkerchief pressed against
your mouth and nose, half a dozen
disposable cameras, and my jealousy
at having been baptized in a church.
Ralph F. Matthews is an English teacher and poet living in Columbia, South Carolina, with his wife and three children. His poems have appeared in various literary journals.
