On a long weekend, trapped in summer skin, you stood on the pier and watched that storm come in over Lake Huron. A baptismal font big enough to take away all that you are and all that you’ve done. You stare at clouds that block the sun; your eyes feel the phantom tears well up. You peel off your clothes that stick with sweat, challenge repose: the inertia that you chose. You inherited sin with that frame you’re in. Your muscles move you toward their own consequences. Caught up thinking of what’s been so burdensome: your need to shit, your need to sleep, and your need to cum, they’re making demands terrestrial that tie your hands, forever clasped to make amends. You put all the blame on that body that bears your name, and when the rain hits your pale form dives into the lake. You can just be brave, and if you can’t, just fake, ‘cause it’s all the same. They made the sign of the cross over you and told you about god and the things he wants: boys made with hearts of oak and stalwart earthbound goals; can you still be good if your body’s filled with holes? Be resolute: they’ll make you float.