A Baptism in the Merrimack, 1845

My daughter's shivers became mine
as leaves of cold light fell across the shore.

Mr. Michaels glanced at his watch, then
beckoned to her with a sharp lifting of his chin.

Come, my child
come into the healing waters of Jesus

Droplets streaming down her face, her arms,
she rose from the waves and smiled at me.

Then, translucent as a shell, she ran to my side
as the whole congregation boomed out a prayer.

Her hand was moist and pliant as a baby fern;
her drenched hair smelled like earth and rain.

Later on, I stood over the tiny bed, bathing her
forehead, willing her chest to rise and fall.

All the ladies were kind, bringing pillows
and poultices, steaming bowls of fragrant broth.

But when they left, yawning into their shawls,
the house was so still and quiet that

at times I thought I could hear the stars
themselves turning and sighing in the endless night.

Come, my child
come into the kingdom of Christ our Lord

At the sound of hoof beats on cobblestone,
I peered out the bedroom window.

It was the doctor, at last,
rounding the corner on the street below.

I rushed down to tell him she was seven,
this was her first time seriously ill,

and to please hurry,
the angels were already calling her name.

Copyright © 1998 Hilary Holladay

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Copyright © 2001 by The Bridge Review: Merrimack Valley Culture and University of Massachusetts Lowell. All Rights Reserved for compilation. Rights revert to individual contributors following publication. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher and individual contributor.