Baptism

I’ve gone under only to emerge sputtering,
no cleaner than before, burdened by my wet
sameness. What is it in me that resists, set
like warped shore timber? In resisting—
goes my credo—I AM. If only baptism
could act on me like a mesmerist,
forcing me to cluck or curl simian fists,
without a chance to snap three times
and awaken back to who I was. I could
blame the age, whose postures I absorb like spirits
bunged in a cask—materialist and wry—but that
fails to explain those who turn out good
suckled by villains. No excuses then
for this adamant failure to be reborn.