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Sea Baptism

An Apology

By Rae SolacePublished 7 months ago 2 min read
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At three hours and twenty-seven minutes past noon on the eighteenth of

June in the two-thousand and one-hundredth year of our Lord, I’ll go out

to sea and let the water end my sea-fearing devotion. I’ve always thought

that perhaps the end of life ought to be like the birth: body drenched in the

broth of God, gasping for truth like a drowning fish, no comprehension of

what I can see, can’t see, bubbles a-flurry, both asleep and awake at the

same time. I gulp down my screaming acceptance, salty lungs that inflate

and crumble once, twice, and finished in blood, sinking until I rest in a

foreign quiet. I’ll sit in His cold whale fall ribcage at the bottom, as ribbons

of angel light like the human anglerfish I loved, flash through the darkness

as he spells praises to the Lord I fear I’ll never find. There should be a peak

between life and death though, shouldn’t there? I was baptized as a baby

of course, but it didn’t really take. I can’t imagine I felt the heart-splitting

pull and cringe for some two-thousand year old raft to bridge my hundred

years between life and death. Only seventy-seven now. I’ve always feared

such faith. I can’t comprehend that kind of light yet, only the easy gray

murk of life descending. But I admit, there’s this strange, hopeful dread I

feel both for succumbing to my sea-madness, and for my inevitable

repentance. Right now I roll through your loving patience like riptides,

and remind myself that false forgiveness is not something a man of God

such as you can fake. At night I choke, imagining myself coughing up

the resurrection like Adam’s rib bone dislodged from my throat as my

love for man overtakes my desire for Grace. Shivering in the frigid water,

if there ever was such a true desire. What distinction can a stupid girl in

love make as rejoice rejoice repeats in her head under eight tons of self-

inflicted pressure per square inch of water? God may forgive her as she

begs for it with all her new sea-breath, hair dripping, naked trespasses

showing through her wet clothing as she kneels in the tides of her

intended rebirth. But will you? As you stand on the bank, red eyes

welled, watching me as I unmake faith by virtue of my labored reach.

surreal poetrysad poetrylove poemsheartbreak
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About the Creator

Rae Solace

An amateur in all regards except taste. Fiction writer, poet, jewelry-maker, craft-maker, painter.

English Creative Writing BA.

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  • Dharrsheena Raja Segarran7 months ago

    Whoaaaa! I'm so mesmerized by this poem. It was so profound, poignant and powerful! Brilliant poem!

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