Revelations

by Trudy Osteen Crow

It is his third attempt at a four-in-hand

on his red power tie. “It's silk,”
he explains offhandedly. “It got wet.”

Mute, She nods knowingly.

(Though, in truth, she knows nothing of wet silk)

One more effort and the knot is satisfactory.

The red noose is tightened, tugged twice,

then patted into position

against his starched dress shirt.

He gazes into the mirror - toward the future -

while she gazes into his white-shirted back

and remembers her baptism in the murky waters

of a now nameless Alabama river.

The muddy current snatches

at the white innocence

of her 10-year-old's dress as

the minister admonishes “Trust in Jeeesus!”

then covers her face with a folded white handkerchief

and tilts her back into the silty water -

"I baptise you in the name of

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

She hears as she struggles for air

and is suddenly righted.

The congregation's solemn “Amens" greet her

as she rises and sludges toward them -

her soiled dress clinging fiercely

to the goosey flesh of her developing body.

She shivers, seeking cover from their scrutiny-

the first fires of passion quelled by the chill reality

of the river's water.

“. . . after a brief goodbye,” He says

drawing her back to the present.

He turns to face her and the white of his shirt

is muddied by the red silk of his tie.

She shivers, as he tucks with finality,

a folded square of white handkerchief

into his pocket.

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award Winner

Original: 1985

Revision: Nov, 2009

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