The Wet-Head’s Dead

The Wet-Head’s Dead

I was nine when I put my sinful self to death—

or at least tried.

Dad laid me back into the water,

the light fractured, rippling.

I came up gasping, damp hair plastered,

and one of the older boys grinned,

tousled my head and said,

"The wet-head's dead!"

I thought he was clever,

that maybe the whole thing was that simple—

sin drowned, spirit risen,

no questions sticking to the skin.

But I remember the ride home,

staring out the window,

wondering if I’d done it right,

if I’d meant it enough,

if I’d jumped too soon

out of fear of wrecks or lightning bolts.

I was afraid to die unbaptized,

and now I was afraid

that I’d done it for the wrong reason,

that hell would claim me

on a technicality.

The questions clung tighter than water—

damned if you do, damned if you don’t,

damned if you think it in those words,

or if you think it at all.