His mother can’t read the sign, whose script letters
-- the only embellishment on the shabby corner –-
appear to spell “JEWPLE”
instead of “TEMPLE”.
This old bodega, made over into a home
for evangelical, baptist, Pentecostal
Christian practitioners, where the testifying
and singing of the congregation and its Sunday converts
weaves its way around the sirens,
thumping music, and voice of the city.
The building rocks with religion
and tonight of all nights he knows
that they will be singing and witnessing
and praising as if they alone were raising the dead.
He is secretly thankful for their presence
although he cannot explain why.
When his mother asks him if they celebrate
Easter at the Jewple,
he can only smile and say,
“I don’t know Ma.
Let’s open the windows and listen.”