THE BAPTIST

Anna Onishchuk

The Baptist

Let’s not pretend the camel’s-hair coat
made him cuddly. He was rough

as the rocks he stood on—burrs
tangled in his hair, beard sticky 

with dirt and honey. Just imagine
that baptism, that giant hairy hand

pushing you under, that face—
fervid, sunburnt, fanatical—the first thing 

you see in this new creation. My baptism
was clean and controlled, one might say

domesticated, with a sweet-smelling hand
cupping just a teaspoon of cool water

onto my forehead while candles glowed
and stone walls kept the world at bay.

Nothing untidy in sight, nothing untamed.
Unless you count Her, hovering 

over those waters like a fierce, unbridled
thing, all ardor and flame, all love running wild.