Baptism
BY ERIN STOODLEY
When my brother pulled me out,
I wasn’t cold. My breath was blued
by the light, seeped through boughs
and singed wings. My calves, blued
from the sleeted wind. And blued,
my tongue withdrew deep, a shank
meant for the animal separate
of my body. My throat, in the blue
of dusk, cut the river. But emerged
a black-bellied fish, stilled in salt.
