The permanent shiny smudge replaced his bronze face,
his features fade in rusted pictures
I play with pigeon feathers picked from pages
on pulpit splinters that bear his cross of puzzled words.
Warriors unite rage, usher 10% offerings
to dear Black children morning, school wombs empty
Sheets untie laid to rest over waving hands
and church pews ready to fly away with sermons
Remained grounded, did not return as flesh, but I smell
warm metal clap the gospels in the wind, history’s confessions.
He asks me to turn past
chapters written to control congregations.
Silent humming and hollering. Elders falling
in the isle sacrificing their lives for next generations’
Silent screaming and crying, soft benediction.
Rashaad Thomas, a U.S. Air Force Veteran, is a poet and freelance writer in South Phoenix, Ariz.
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