Brown: Poems

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—formerpastor 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.