Preaching

Under the billowing heat of the white

tarpaulin church tent, my mother lowered

her worshipping hands and leaned into me.

“You’re running away from your calling.

Your gift for words is meant for church

and not for that skeptical head of yours.”

The night air was thick with the scent

of Charlie perfume, earth, and sweat,

with a chorus of handheld fans fluttering.

My doubts doubled due to the shouting

pastor fleecing his flock for small bills

to shop for planes and limousines.

“Even broken men,” she said, “could channel

God’s will. Despite their flaws, in the midst

of their damage, a light can shine divine.”

But all my life I’d remain a questioning man,

choosing debate over faith, sparring

with mystery, claiming logic over belief.

But in the funeral parlor, the grief

of seeing the shell of my mother’s body

bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic,

with her words, my god, my god,

being stuck in my throat as I stood

there, her broken son, preaching.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Freed Verse: A Reckoning of Black British Poets.” Read the rest of the folio in the September 2025 issue.

Source: Poetry (September 2025)