Of Dresses, Monks, and Donkeys

While cycling down west Jean-Talon street,
I caught a glimpse of her luscious green sari
Embroidered with gold around the hem
(And only slightly marred by the cell
She pressed to her ear, walking slowly
On delicate legs of swaying tradition),

As I had walked, barefoot, one August morning
In ankle-length coarse-cloth heavy white dress
(With a Templar "T" embroidered on the back)
To my baptism, across the bridge and down
To the chilly river in the highlands of
Montenegro, the only witnesses

A handful of monks with dusty shoes and
Indifferent donkeys grazing in tall grasses.
On the bank, with a small procession behind,
I waded in uncertainly, a momentary stab
Of cold spreading into warmth within,
And then all flew upwards as Father

Jovan sunk me under three times quickly
(My godmother Coka having pleaded not
To have me long in the cold waters since
I was in my woman-days), while the monks
On the bank bowed, among them the most fervent
A Russian novice in black boots.

Dripping, my wet feet caked with sun-pulverized
Dust as we recrossed the bridge, I was the purest
That day, they said, that I would ever be.
A whole new life, a whole new world lay
Ahead of me, and I was ready, said
The monks. Some only smiled among their mountains.

By now only a vague trace of the
Green-sari girl remained in the air.
Pedalling in a dream, I wondered:
About the monks, and how they are doing,
What happened to my long Templar dress, and
How much purity (if any there was) I still had.

On the bridge in Rijeka Crnojevica, the day before baptism