The Baptisim

There's a secret written on the shoreline. If you pinch a whirligig between your thumb and forefinger, hold it to your lips like an oyster, you can suck out remnants of freshwater innocence. And if you wave your pinched fingers, like a delicacy, or a parading pageant girl, you can create a symphony. Every note will be an invertebrate with parceled skin, ten legs, six eyes, and a melody reverberating off its antennae. Or a fish with peacock plumage and Ugly puckered on its lips. It will bite a hook thinking its swallowing Saturn. Not Jupiter, because that is on the other side of your thumbnail. With which you pinch the whirligig, hoping it doesn't spill sacramental wine down the front of your Church dress, just pressed, flowerfresh, still smelling like Jesus. I think he smells like coup d'état and seagull ambushes, fat leaves floating on thick water. It's curious how the birches grow from nowhere; their roots retract inward and hold on to their kidneys for support. If you peel off the first three layers of skin, you can see the large intestine bubbling with sap and accusing the beeches of Martyrdom.

-Kimberly Walleston

Literary Magazine Home Page »