Clean

Creekbottom 
pushes up between our toes 
like mushrooms. 
Summer water 
moves slow around our shins 
then flattens our dresses 
like leaves against our thighs. 
The three of us 
hold tight to willows bent low 
as we wade in further. 
Sun shifts between the shadowed creek banks. 

Yesterday 
the same light fell 
on the boy baptized by his father, 
“by the proper authority,” the bishop said.
We saw his underwater smile and closed eyes.
Creekwater streamed off his slick hair, 
clean. 

We stand now, 
looking at each other, waiting. 
The slip of water around our legs 
nudges. 
Willows rustle around us, 
branches bowed toward the water.

We take turns. 
Helped by the other two, 
I bend and plunge under. 
My feet kick clouds 
of underwater dust 
that floats up. 
When I shake my hair, 
an arc of droplets freckles the water,
clean.