Young girls flounce in frills
As the sunlight makes prism sculptures
Off the hilltop church cross.
The smell of sweet scented powder
And azalea blossoms permeate the air.
Young boys play pranks
With the shiny jet hair
Of girls packed in rainbow
Folds of cotton.
As the organ hits its downbeat,
The whirlwind of eager faces
Flood the pews with their parents
To await the beginning.
Mass choirs echo
Ethereal melodies through the beams
Of walls flooded in memories
While voices travel through
The marrow of our bones.
One by one - mother,father,child
Stand clothed in pride as fathers receive
Accolades of acknowledgement
For a job well done.
All names are called,
Yet the bench is worn beneath me.
Never does my family stand,
Never does my name ring out
Among the holy walls.
I look to my mother for the answer
As tears flood her mahogany eyes
And clings to the contours of her
Pain etched face as they collect
Upon my hands streaming down
Into pools upon the withered wood.
In her eyes of crimson,
The tale unfolds before me
As I face the awakening.
Copyright © 1998 AMJ-M
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