Baptismo Sum.

Baptismo Sum

   In this month of dehydration,
   we keep our eyes skyward, both to watch
   for rain and to avoid the scorn
   of the scorched succulents who reproach
   us silently, saying, "You promised to care."

   And so, although we thought we could stick
   these seedlings in the ground and leave
   them to their own devices, we haul
   hoses and buckets of water to the outer edges
   of the yard where the hose will not reach.

   The idea of a desert seduces,
   as it did the Desert Fathers, who fled
   the corruption of the cities to contemplate
   theology surrounded by sand
   and stinging winds. My thoughts travel
   to the Sanctuary Movement, contemporary Christians
   who risked all to rescue illegal aliens.
   I admire their faith, tested in that desert crucible.
   I could create my own patch of desert in tribute.

   Yet deserts do not always sanctify.
   I think of the Atomic Fathers
   who hauled equipment into the New Mexico
   desert and littered the landscape with fallout
   which litters our lives, a new religion,
   generations transformed in the light of the Trinity test site.

   I back away from my Darwinian, desert dreams.
   The three most popular religions
   in the world emerged from their dry desert
   roots, preaching the literal and symbolic primacy
   of water, leaving the arid ranges behind
   as they flowed toward temperance.

   I cannot reject the religion of my ancestors,
   who spent every day of their lives
   remembering their baptism before heading to the fields
   to make the dirt dream in colors.

Kristin Berkey-Abbott teaches English and creative writing at the Art Institute of Fort Lauderdale in Florida.