Sunday

    It could have been the way the Southern man

    in his navy suit and skin rocked

    along the church wall， swaying to the tambourine¹

    like an old man wobbling to blues².

    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 forth³ 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，

    tugging⁴ the notes from generations gone.

    And a sister lost in the crowd screamed，

    like when children have their first babies，

    and screeching⁵ 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 auction⁶ block，

    and we tried to clap our way out of memory，

    to stomp⁷ out the sound like sparks of fire

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

    this child would be different）。