The Black Church

I remember going to church
just before I was adopted.
Old Ms. Jones would take me Sundays,
and I stood out among the black crowd.

Heads would turn and eyes would roll
but Ms. Jones said in his house, we're all the same.
The Bibles were a bit tattered and torn
and not at all like the ones at the white church.

Wily Mr. Pete would play the organ,
the chords reverberating inside my chest.
The choir would sing as a single voice.
The most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.

Then big old Lady Harris got up on the stand
and with sweat pouring down her face, she sang.
I couldn't understand her it was so loud and vocal,
but I knew it was something powerful.

People were holding their hands in the air
and shaking them like they had a seizure.
Faces contorted as if they were in pain
and several people wailed cries of prayer.

I never went back to the black church again
and I don't think I'd understand it if I did.
The soul cornered in between those walls
isn't something meant for everyone.