POETRY
In Attendance of the Watch Night Service
“In Attendance …” read by Matthew Johnson.
Of all the days in the year, the slaves dread New Year’s day the worst …
— Lewis Clarke, “Leaves from a Slave’s Journal of Life”
There were about 20ish minutes before the start of a new year,
And my mother, so enraptured by the sermon and chorus,
Didn’t nudge me as my drool ran down my Sunday best
As I inadvertently fell asleep, like the disciples in Gethsemane.
I was awakened by the pastor who had caught the Spirit,
And was yelling and running up and down the aisle
Like he was being chased by a hellhound,
But really, only one of the senior deacons was after him,
Carrying a towel to drape over the reverend, like one of the J.B.’s,
Who put a cape on James Brown to cool him down.
I watch from my pew, groggy and stifling yawns,
My mother and other older churchgoers, get up and sway and move,
Because of the Lord, and because it was a dance of liberty,
Like the ones our ancestors move to on the first watch night service,
Hours before the first day of that special new year,
When freedom, that terribly, beautiful thing, was finally in reach,
And the auction block never felt more powerless,
And the hope that families would be spared
From being fractured into fragments as business transactions,
Never felt more possible.
They dance because of the Lord, and because of the ancestors.
* “In Attendance of the Watchnight Service” first appeared in Scarlet: A Literary Journal.
Matthew Johnson, author of three poetry collections, including Too Short to Box with God (Finishing Line Press), has had his writing appear in The London Magazine, Roanoke Review, and elsewhere. Managing editor of Portrait of New England, he is also poetry editor for The Twin Bill. https://www.matthewjohnsonpoetry.com/
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Image: Mike Pennington / Watchnight service, Christmas Eve, Old Rattray. Public Domain.
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