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.