7 December 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 4

The Holy Waters of Penzance

by SAM PEREIRA

One weekend in June, we rushed

The shore, hoping

For a mass baptism, one

Might guess. We wore nothing,

And she carried the saddest look

Of anyone in that crowd.

Let's not be coy here: it was

Specifically a Sunday and

It was June. 1997.

I remember these things,

Because that year

Was supposed to bring us

A son; that, and because

A squirrel shouted it out

To me when I was alone

In the park. Which occurrence,

The squirrel or the child,

Actually happened, is

Completely a public call.

I was saying: she wore

A congealed stare—Hope,

Wearing sunglasses, so as

Not to be confused for Hope.

She joined us in the sea.

If this was not an ocean,

Paparazzi would be hiding

In Mulberry trees, having decided

Which lens to use where; how

The light hit her neck, as she

Bent to the water and gave in.