Gospel Birds

by Elio Iannacci

or night birds --
those throats wrapped in silver tinsel
or pious sentiments
our choir or theirs? it is all the same to me
fire-engine bells and cathedral tolls
bang-a-gongs or banshee calls
they all hold me back
into 1974 near the Met, in the pepsi-cola tent,
a concert for the street harps and the desperate
breaking tradition and my mother’s heart
with mascara, lamé and a gash of truth
they deliver shades of difference to me
a former funk-o-holic, a vicious lover,
an empty Brooklyn boy who trades
one libation for another

and those gospel birds shame!
melt the icy hearts down
with every “kitschy-kitschy” – dragon fire breaks
on the space children
like a hush and a quake
an audience drowning in chrome prayer
the gospel birds bend
higher.
higher!
High-A!
sharp and disc-like, flicked in flight
quick silvered bitches on a deep search
for this Black girl named God