BAPTISM

If you stand directly under that very specific jungle rain setting of the shower head, letting the water scorch down the ravines of an aching back, call it baptism.Wash away the toil of the day, the grime that anchors you, the dead skin voices of a cruel afternoon. Let it go– watch invisible dirt make love to the drain of oblivion; it is gone from you, but you are anything but gone. You can be born anew any hour of the day, in a townhouse, in a bathtub, under the disguise of fake rain falling from the walls. If you stand there long enough underwater, clutching a thin bar of soap in your hands, eventually you will be holding nothing. Your hands will remember the shape of what once used to live there, the precise dimensions of having, holding, being. But milky water, too, will leave, and you will wonder why the things that heal are the best at escaping. Let it go– it was never yours to love. Not everything you love will be yours. This is the cost of original sin.

Do not become the soap. Learn, instead, that what remains is a body, the physique of a soldier who fights without thinking about the carnage, loves too deeply, forgets to breathe new air.

Turn off the water.
Stand in the steam of all things abandoned.
Call it baptism.
You are brand new again.

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