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.
Copyright © 2018 by Kevin Young. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
