Kitchen Sink Baptism
by Lucille Enneking
When my grandmother died
like the clatter of a rosary,
I wondered how death
could roll off me, a raindrop
off a peace lily.
I wondered how I could break
out of beads of irony.
If I should
lock my door.
If I should
walk my dog.
A thousand kitchen sink baptisms
couldn’t make it right.
I taught you to pray,
but I could never show you
how to stop.
Now your golf bag lies
like a dead thing in the trunk.
I seethe while you smile,
dream of you unbothered while
I tear this house apart
limb from limb.