Imagine a baby you find in the street.

My imagined infant: dirt-marked skin,

swaddled in solely a diaper.

Where are its parents? Next

to the baby is a puddle of water.

The baby is dying. The puddle holds

swirls of color like those in

parking lots after it rains. I hope

the baby is far enough away to be safe.

You don’t know if the baby is baptized.

What do you do? The boy who christened

my brother and I the gay twins says I’d

call 911. Our teacher frowns. What if

you didn’t have a phone? The girl

whose father is an usher raises her

hand: Mark 16:16: Whoever believes

and is baptized is saved; 

whoever refuses to believe is, um. 

Damned? I’d baptize the baby so it could

go to heaven. 

I imagine, as praise is presented, 

the baby’s oil-stained forehead,

the picture of clumsy salvation.