Conversation with Phyllis Wheatley 2

CONVERSATION WITH PHILLIS WHEATLEY 2

Tell me about your baptism, she asked.

I rose out of the water, a caught fish—slippery,

gaping for breath, brand new with righteousness.

I walked down to the frothing whirlpool,

Pastor Lonnie—a white man in a white robe,

extended his hands and helped me down the steps.

The congregation watched as I answered his questions:

Yes. Yes. Yes. Jacuzzi warm water gurgled and spun

as his white robe spread around my little circumference,

holy creamer. He put his hand on my nose, pinched

my breath. I did not close my eyes as he buried me

under the water—under the water I heard muffled

shouting, under the water I saw Pastor Lonnie’s face

ripple in thirds. He tipped my body back, lifted me up

and out from the wet coffin to the deafening resound

of clapping and yelling from the church. My hair back

to curls, my face like the face of my birth when I was

cut from my mother—terrified and ready to scream.