Forefinger, nail clipped blunt, breaks the chill skin
of the pomade, tunnels for the bottom
of the tin, scoops out a sweet-scented lump.
Smeared between slow hands, the smell breaks open,
life leaking from violet, and lends Sunday
stink to thin hair wired and dark from washing.
And this happens behind so many doors—
in Mister Odell’s cluttered kitchenette,
in Freddy the butcher’s misted mirror.
They groom for glory, snap on dull Spiedels,
pour all of their ache into squarish serge.
They are so close to dying they can tell
you what their heaven smells like and it smells
different for each of them: to Mister Earl,
it’s steam and anise. To Ole James Markum,
dead-slow knotting his noose of a necktie,
heaven smells of Tuscaloosa summer.
Between them and there, perhaps another
hundred Sundays of can’t-flinch ritual,
splashing pungent scent into throat hollows
and cave of the chest, treating tired wingtips
to a Vaseline shimmer. Old suits freed
from plastic, creases blade-sharp, double-checked.
And then on Sunday, Second Street Baptist
or Pilgrim Rest Missionary Baptist
or Church of the Living Lord opens up
before them with its splintered pews and fat,
peach-powdered usherettes. Our men rock with
The Word, feel that huge holy hand icing
their spines. Content with being softly doomed,
they mumble memorized gospel and feel
a hollow swell inside them. They pray for
minor comforts, their knees hurting like hell
with the coming thunder. But no amount
of kneeling can move those suits. And, goddamn.
Their hair is perfect.