As a Boy at the Elder's Knee, I Come to Understand Hallelujah

When a boy's drowning, he tells me, son, it's best                                                                                 he doesn't frighten easily                                                                  or

fight the hands tugging him deeper into the eddy.                                                                  Let the limbs

go slack as the water                            embraces his body

as if he were at home in his mama's arms.                                                       He tells me, let the river make him

part of it … drowning is after all                                        an existence. & therein lies

my confusion with what's glib & what's wise,                                                  sitting at the elder's knee after church                                                  scratching my head as if

shaking a fist at God. I want to ignore him when

                                                             he says, boy, whether during his                                                             lifeor after, the dead will be celebrated in the lives of others,

                          but as a child I don't want to believe in dying,but to expect failure

                          in-between the successes, & the further failuresto come—                                    catharsis that makes a boy precociousamongst his peers—

                                                  so I turn to walk away,& he grabs the crook of my elbow

                 as if to determine the size of the joint,as if to marvel

                                    at the skin casing over my bones,though what he's imparting

                           is the reality of death, of dying, thatit's like fire, he says,

              it doesn't burn what it consumes,it celebrates it.

                                                                  And Hallelujah for that, his                                                  wife says,having arrived fanning herself, & each of us growing silent,

                                                  like the soft murmuring after the                                   preacher's sermonwhen he says, Now let us all pray,

                                                                 & we bow our heads,                                                                 our eyes shut tight,not praying, but wandering the dark cave of our minds,                                                   determined to knowif everything we've ever been told is true.