Brown
 
          for my mother
 
 
The scrolled brown arms
            of the church pews curve
like a bone—their backs
 
bend us upright, standing
            as the choir enters
      singing, We’ve come this far
 
by faith—the steps
            & sway of maroon robes,
      hands clap like a heart
 
in its chest—leaning
            on the Lord—
      this morning’s program
 
still warm
            from the mimeo machine
      quick becomes a fan.
 
In the vestibule latecomers
            wait just outside
      the music—the river
 
we crossed
            to get here—
wide boulevards now
 
*
 
 
in disrepair.
We’re watched over
      in the antechamber
 
by Rev.
      Oliver Brown,
his small, colored picture
 
nailed slanted
to the wall—former
pastor of St. Mark’s
 
who marched
into that principal’s office
      in Topeka to ask
 
why can’t my daughter
school here, just
steps from our house—
 
but well knew the answer—
& Little Linda
became an idea, became more
 
what we needed & not
            a girl no more—Free-dom
      Free-dom—
 
*
 
 
Now meant
            sit-ins & I shall I shall
I shall not be
 
moved—
& four little girls bombed
into tomorrow
 
in a church basement like ours
where nursing mothers & children
not ready to sit still
 
learned to walk—Sunday school
sent into pieces
& our arms.
           
We are
swaying more
now, entering
 
heaven’s rolls—the second row
            behind the widows
in their feathery hats
 
& empty nests, heads heavy
      but not hearts
Amen. The all-white
 
*
 
 
stretchy, scratchy dresses
            of the missionaries—
the hatless holy who pin lace
 
to their hair—bowing
            down into pocketbooks
opened for the Lord, then
 
snapped shut
like a child’s mouth
mouthing off, which just
 
one glare from an elder
            could close.
God’s eyes must be
 
like these—aimed
            at the back row
where boys pass jokes
 
& glances, where Great
Aunts keep watch,
their hair shiny
 
as our shoes
            &, as of yesterday,
just as new— 
 
 
*
 
 
chemical curls & lop-
            sided wigs—humming
      during offering
 
Oh my Lord
            Oh my Lordy
      What can I do.
 
The pews curve like ribs
            broken, barely healed,
      & we can feel
 
ourselves breathe—
while Mrs. Linda Brown
Thompson, married now, hymns
 
piano behind her solo—
No finer noise
      than this—
 
We sing
along, or behind,
      mouth most
 
every word—following
her grown, glory voice,
      the black notes
 
 
*
 
 
rising like we do—
            like Deacon
      Coleman who my mother
 
always called Mister—
            who’d help her
      weekends & last
 
I saw him my mother
            offered him
a slice of sweet potato
 
pie as payment—
            or was it apple—
      he’d take no money
 
barely said
            Yes, only
      I could stay
 
for a piece—
            trim as his grey
      moustache, he ate
 
with what I can only
            call dignity—
      fork gently placed
 
 
*
 
 
across his emptied plate.
            Afterward, full,
      Mr. Coleman’s That’s nice
 
meant wonder, meant
the world entire.
      Within a year cancer
 
had eaten him away—
the only hint of it
this bitter taste for a whole
 
year in his mouth. The resurrection
            and the light.     
For now he’s still
           
standing down front, waiting
at the altar for anyone
to accept the Lord, rise
 
& he’ll meet you halfway
& help you down
      the aisle—
 
legs grown weak—
As it was in the beginning
Is now
 
*

 
And ever shall be—
All this tuning
      & tithing. We offer
 
our voices up
toward the windows
whose glass I knew
 
as colored, not stained—
our backs
made upright not by
 
the pews alone—
the brown        
wood smooth, scrolled
 
arms grown
            warm with wear—
& prayer—
 
Tell your neighbor
            next to you
you love them—till
 
we exit
into the brightness
beyond the doors.