Janice Bishop
Back to the Presbyters
Mahogany seats
puffed with burgundy
the pale organist
her hair netted
a single roll
curves above her flat
ivory bodice
lips thinner still
against the bronze pipe organ
men upright in suit and tie
women fair as the minister's
blonde wife
his quiet tones invite me
to consider his point of view
follow his thoughts with John
stand with the women
at the stone rolled back
I am home
where my mother led me
following her thoughts
into silence
this simplicity
vacant of ornament or scent
absent all but the sound
of the Word made Flesh
toning my mind to the challenge
of lone conscience
resurrecting memory older now
than my mother lived
This is not:
the flashing eyes of Arabia
not the Adhan of the Muezzin
nor the durbakkah
not
the dark skins of Africa
nor syncopation of reggae or blues
not
the arc of memory
Sinai's tiny tribe
delivering to all mankind
to the song of Torah
not
the leap of the Eucharist
nor the verb of Saints
this is
my neighborhood
the globe buoyant
through the same grace
my mother led me to
authority not
in the halls of power
not the whorl of rain
nor wind nor earthquake
but standing with Elijah
at the open cave
to hear the still small voice
within
Mother and I
we have traveled far
to come home
puffed with burgundy
the pale organist
her hair netted
a single roll
curves above her flat
ivory bodice
lips thinner still
against the bronze pipe organ
men upright in suit and tie
women fair as the minister's
blonde wife
his quiet tones invite me
to consider his point of view
follow his thoughts with John
stand with the women
at the stone rolled back
I am home
where my mother led me
following her thoughts
into silence
this simplicity
vacant of ornament or scent
absent all but the sound
of the Word made Flesh
toning my mind to the challenge
of lone conscience
resurrecting memory older now
than my mother lived
This is not:
the flashing eyes of Arabia
not the Adhan of the Muezzin
nor the durbakkah
not
the dark skins of Africa
nor syncopation of reggae or blues
not
the arc of memory
Sinai's tiny tribe
delivering to all mankind
to the song of Torah
not
the leap of the Eucharist
nor the verb of Saints
this is
my neighborhood
the globe buoyant
through the same grace
my mother led me to
authority not
in the halls of power
not the whorl of rain
nor wind nor earthquake
but standing with Elijah
at the open cave
to hear the still small voice
within
Mother and I
we have traveled far
to come home
Page(s) 47-48
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