I thought the tears welling in me needed to be dug for,

collected and poured out,

so I could bathe in them and be baptized!

But now, I find the supply to be

endless and

my hands throat and knees weak

from all the work of crying.

So, I sit up in bed. Remove myself from this church of little sustenance.

I cleanse my body, scrubbing away the weight of my aching and

commit my feelings to the words my pen attaches to page.

 

I go sit with my joint at the Lake, ask her

to bring some peace. Let the weed mingle with the wind, the scent of lakewater,

taste the salt of my tears, close my eyes to listen

to the spark of the lighter, Black people and seagulls’ laughter,

to the waves, whooshing up and down my calves, pushing and pulling around

my heels that dig deeper and deeper into the rocky sand,

no place else to go.

 

And when I say to the Lake, that I’m ready,

when I say to her – “take me, please”

I soak all of myself, submerge the whole of my spirit,

and her taking never ends.

It’s this embrace, boundless and unquestioning,  

which becomes the baptism that bubbles and overflows out of me

And finally!

I can breathe again, for

there is too much Lake for me to drown alone.