And they were not baptized
save they brought forth fruit
meet that they were worthy of it.
(Moroni 6:1)
The music stops—
and I swallow Moroni like a stone.
A quiet gathers.
The font surrenders to flesh,
and water breaks around her face,
cradling form and cloth
in a glassy stillness that lingers
as air relearns the shape of breath.
My doubts become hers
and I wonder whether the smile
that parts her lips hides the questions
mine whisper half-formed into silence.
Will it take?
Will this body bend and break?
Can so fragile a resurrection
bear the world of its rebirth?
These are the questions of my weakness,
but in them there is yet some grace,
and more still in this water that ripples
and swells and bursts onto mercy,
and this circle, and these hands,
laid soft as spirit on dripping hair,
and this name in a book
that might have been mine.
Adam Glover teaches Latin American literature and culture at Winthrop University. This poem was written during his conversion process, preceding his baptism by several months.
