Hallelujah Hands
by Paloma
It was a good thing that the
roof was secured,
if not, it
would have been
blown to the corner of 23rd and 44th,
Harlem.
The choir,
dipped in royal blue,
a vocal stairway to the ears of the Lord.
"Amazing grace,
how sweet the sound,"
His black hands,
Hallelujah Hands,
were lifted high
twisting and turning.
A lifetime ago, this mama's sweet boy,
brought that white magic into the neighborhood.
A baton shoved in his face, as if he were
a politician
making a speech.
Purple rings around an eye,
he thought he would die in that place, holding pen for lost souls,
no place for this mama's sweet boy.
" that saved a wretch like me…"
Fidelity, in
black and white, he had
a place to hang his hat, he belonged, he
cared, he loved.
Hallelujah hands keeping a spirit
from joining the damned as he held the fair one,
who was assulted day and night.
Hallelujah hands that were a harbor,
a refuge in an embrace for the man
who arm wrestled with the Lord for possession
of his dying
best friend, the dark one
"I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see."
The three friends stood in the pew,
women fanning themselves, swaying like palm trees
in the heat of
the church.
The reverend spitting the Good News in a frenzied sermon
while elders praised in holy dance.
Huggy wondered what these two white boys
were thinking as he thanked with uplifted hands.