ode to Sunday church service
shiny black kitten heels on dirty floorboards that creak and groan with every breath
long ivy white lace dress, your mom squeezed on just hours before with two high pigtails
your little fingers dig into the pew while you try not to kick the seat in front of you
your great-grandmother gives you and your sister two quarters each
which you roll around in your palm, waiting for the golden offering plate
Pastor drones on about life and death
JESUS on the cross
daniel in the lion’s den
adam and eve with the ultimate sin
your granny grips your thigh just when it feels like you’re about to jump out of your skin
your sister’s head is knocked back
mouth open like a giant whale
eyes shut like the bible
hands clenched tight like GOD
the choir stands up for the 3rd, 4th, or 5th time
singing hymns that you can barely read but know by heart
Go tell it on the mountain
O’er the hills and everywhere
Go tell it on the mountain
That JESUS CHRIST is born
your knees shake with the weight of the hymnal book
and maybe the weight of the LORD, too
who looks at you from the stained glass windows
alongside Matthew, James, Peter, Thaddeus, Thomas,
Andrew, Simon, Philip, John, Thomas, Bartholomew
(no Judas)
you wonder if it’s lunchtime or dinnertime and
whether or not that means you get mac-n-cheese and bread rolls
or if you’re going to get the ice cream in the back of the freezer
that your grandaddy got for your sister’s arrival to south carolina—
neapolitan, your sister eats the vanilla, you eat the chocolate
(he’ll eat the rest)
Pastor finally slumps in his chair
his choir quiets down with their sweaty, fat faces
women leap from their seats as if they have seen the face of GOD
you’ll probably think they have and wonder what HE looks like
your granny just shakes her head, so you ignore them
church ends and you shake awake your sister while your grandparents
mingle with every hat-wearing woman and tight-suited man
once they’re finally done, you all pack into the van
your grandaddy puts on the motown station
because marvin gaye is the closest to gospel nowadays
If you need me, call me
No matter where you are
No matter how far (don't worry, baby)
Just call my name
(I’ll be there in a hurry)
when you get back home, you still won’t know if it’s lunch or dinnertime
because the sun still sits in her high throne, spilling gold on the path home
in the end, it really doesn’t matter because you’re still getting mac-n-cheese
and dinner rolls, and homemade sweet tea on ice once your granny decides
your food is digested enough, she’ll dish you and your sister out
two large bowls of that sweet neapolitan
with lots of chocolate syrup
handfuls of sprinkles
topped off with a large, cool spoon
and your grandaddy will eat the rest
(even though he probably shouldn’t)
night comes, and your granny tucks you tight into the bed
your head sinks into a pillow three times bigger than your head
arms stuck at your side like a soldier; breathe still as your granny creeps out
your sister sleeps easy but you’re too distracted by the night
encroaching on your space like a prison and keeps you frozen
but when you sleep you will try to dream of GOD
how the roads and streets of heaven are
whether there will be choirs and preachers too
of what the face of the LORD looks like
(like the one the ladies at church see)
and like the one you will.