Baptism
Church bells. Ninety degrees.
Sweat follows the center of my back like a secret.
The sound of the organ shakes the cut glass.
I am not here. I am floating, tilted, hot.
Sweat like butter in tiny swimming pools all over the church,
all across the pews inside our undershirts
inside my turquoise dress and the leopard-print blouse in front of me.
Sweat makes the organ sing.
It sticks to the walls and alters the acoustics.
It alters the air inside of me.
We are perfumed English swimming pools, Kyrie Eleison, going down.
When my head tilts away, opens up,
when my mouth is dry and my skin is wet,
our organs sing at once so no one voice is heard.
A baby in my arms calling eh eh eh
Eleison. Baptized with salt. My baby,
my euphoria, his hair a thin wet curl
against my turquoise dress. Dresses stick.
Velcro baby.
Velcro song, Mozart clinging
to my tongue and knotting up my hair.
