See, the Good Shepherd is seeking,
Seeking the lambs that are lost,
Bringing them in with rejoicing,
Saved at such infinite cost.
—Mary B. Wingate
The water in the font, left over
from some forgotten baptism,
rippled waist high
with flexing larvae, bobbing
fragments of drowned gecko,
and a few curled millipedes
that had settled into the clouds
of black silt—a slurry of
washed-away sins—at the bottom.
The pump broken, we scooped,
heaved, our buckets
warping with the weight
of the water we sloshed
into the sinks
and toilets of the adjoining
bathroom. Once the filth
got too shallow for bailing,
we switched to sackcloth
rags, soaking up puddles
and wringing them out—
then with mops and blue
disinfectant, we sopped
the last of the grime
off the floor of the font
before turning the knob
to fill it back up.
Our work thus finished,
we sat, damp backs to the wall,
under a fan and we sang—
O Bom Pastor as conforta,
Dá-lhes abrigo e calor,
Pois já tem pago por elas
Um infinito valor—
while new water gurgled glassy
over polished white tile.
