Mother says we must look Sunday best
when we go to Worthy Church.
But my skin is faded pages
and my hair is ruffled feathers.
Father would not approve.
Our little church is on a green hill
where the crows rest in winter trees,
watching with eyes like wooden beads.
The preacher’s wife smiles, taking Mother’s hand.
We are a picture of perfection—
pressed and scrubbed like the bird
that waits for Sunday supper.
Plumes on ladies’ hats stand up proud
as they sway to amazing grace
and the children flock together,
whispering under Preacher’s beak-nose.
Outside the crows haunt the windowpanes
indignant of their forced freedom,
and I watch with golden chains around my wrists
which shout to heaven
of my Sunday best.
