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 clapping 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

——