Leaving the Woods Behind

We hung an umbrella inside-out and upside-down
over the fire in the rain and warmed ourselves
under the tarps hung up in a circle around it.
The fire stayed dry and the wet umbrella steamed.
When the smoke blew over me it stung my eyes
and I clenched my eyes like fists, stood still
with two hot tears blooming, and took it like baptism.

I was baptized in a pool, holding on with both hands
to the strong, heavy arm of the pastor, who pulled me
back up with a strength that could have held me down
until I drifted into heaven still soaking wet.

But now I'm baptized as Jesus was. He knelt down
into the river on his own strength and imagined
the moving water running through him and taking
the salt of the old man away to the sea.

This is a baptism of smoke, not water's opposite,
but the opposite of mist, the opposite of rain.
I walk out of the woods with the smell of smoke
in my hair, in my clothes, and even in my lungs.
The first person I see looks at me like I have something
eternal to offer her. I'm certain I do. But I leave her
with only the smoke and no stories to tell.
When I go home, I shower away the new man,
all of that salt washing away in the water.