Read an Excerpt
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.
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