Brian Beatty: "Wigs and Hymnals"

Whatever river takes you,

it’s going to make you, too.

Locals soaked to the bone

swear that’s the only baptism

the seriously righteous need.

Who am I to disbelieve them?

Small, smooth pebbles fall out

of their teeth as they pry, pray

and preach themselves hoarse.

And I’m not here for trouble.

That doesn’t matter, of course. 

To mollify shouting onlookers

with convictions much deeper

and mightier, I’m quite certain,

than any I'm ever likely to hold

(doubters from the next ghost 

town over have surrounded me) 

my faithful hosts begin running 

around lighting each other’s hair 

on fire — using book pages

lit with wet matches.