Sunday

    It could have been the way the Southern man

    in his navy suit and skin rocked

    along the church wall， swaying to the tambourine

    like an old man wobbling to blues.

    Or the way Sister Nettie got the spirit

    all in her feet and behind， quick-stepping

    like an ant hill was under her toes，

    shaking her head back and forth in disbelief——

    Or the way Deacon Jones raised

    both hands like the police were there，

    and started pacing the pulpit——

    a foreign street——looking for Jesus.

    But something quick came over the church

    when Walter's voice slid to his navel

    and plucked a piece of umbilical cord，

    tugging the notes from generations gone.

    And a sister lost in the crowd screamed，

    like when children have their first babies，

    and screeching floated over the pews

    and took the congregation rocking

    Back to the first cry we made

    in this freedom-stealing country——

    the first shout on the auction block，

    and we tried to clap our way out of memory，

    to stomp out the sound like sparks of fire

    but it was already voiced （and the seer had said，

    this child would be different）。