view from the choir-loft
ever since I can remember
black people been performing
we sung our blues out on the fields
and exulted them into jazz and
wrapped them up in rhythm
even made a gospel of them
but mind u
back in the fields
it wasn’t for them
it was always for us
now we perform for different reasons
slaves to ourselves
slaves to money and position and tradition
everything is so different now
can’t u tell how
the artist has to take all the truth out of a song
for it to make it to the radio
that’s why there are so many songs about sexing
and not many about loving
so many songs about living large
and not enough songs about plain honest living.
and so hear I sit
in the choir loft
we just got finished singing
and man it was awful
not all the parts were there,
but honestly, that didn’t bother me
today I feel something different
I stand up on the choir loft
swaying, smiling, trying to will
the tension out of my body
and mimic the glitter and glam
of Bobby Jones Gospel hour on BET
and while up there I begin
to situation begins to shift
we
your babies, your grandbabies, your nieces, nephews, cousins
you,
the congregation
our parents, aunties, uncles, and friends
so much between us is unspoken
as you clap and sway,
you become the choir
and we are the congregation
you want us to know that you like
what we look like up there
robes on, hair done, combed, looking presentable
you applaud and we love it
because everywhere a nuisance and a problem
and here we get to be your joy
but there is a deeper truth to us
but we can’t show you
cause we’re afraid you won’t applaud
we come to church cause u make us
and now you want to teach us
not how to be
but how to perform
so we can stay in your world
so we can act in your play
can’t say the word sex,
though many of us are already having it.
can’t cuss
though cursing would be the only way some of us have
to call our nameless demons
it doesn’t seem to matter, that
some of us are gay,
some of us can’t stop doing drugs,
some of us can’t stop selling them,
some of us don’t have Daddies
so we turn to strangers
for our identity, and love
none of that really seems to matter
as long as on the Sunday you assign
we all get up and sing and dance and smile
while you clap and holler
while you trade the truth of us
for the lie you are so anxious to believe
I want a song
that I can sing
full throated, and free
with a choir or without
in church or not
but right now
this is my story,
these are my blues.
