I tried it once, the being saved,
my devout older cousin standing
before me on the steps of the city pool.
She said, you can’t plug your nose,
so I didn’t, and she dunked me, held me
under for a long time because
it has to hurt so He’ll know
you’re ready to receive His grace.
I spoke in garbled tongues, bubbles
rising from me as I tried to catch
her faith, felt the water enter
me like a needle—
the way it does now, the spout
of the neti pot pressed to one nostril,
a torrent of salt water
blazing out the other one
as I remember the straight line
her mouth made, so intent
was she on this ministry
that it had to be love,
the sun behind her aflame
in the wavering sky above me.