Jesus Was There

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on the wall behind the choir chairs, 
and the ladies 
brushing the warm chapel air 
with round cardboard fans were there, 

and the men losing hair 
and holding hymn books up 
with rough sun-burned hands were there, 

along with my father and his counselors, 
and the stake president 
in his special chair beside the pulpit. 

And I, a white-stockinged child, was there 
trying to keep my Sunday feet still, 
especially during the prayers 
as they hung there mid-air. 

The grown-ups kept their backs 
straight to the benches 
or choir’s semi-circle 
of pale cushioned chairs. 

I knew why the ladies’ legs barely bent. 
It was perfectly clear 
for I’d watched my mother 
dressing herself for the Sabbath. 

From the girdle 
under her best pressed dress, 
rubbery garters dangled, 
and pinched into place 
reinforced tops of nylon stockings 
she’d carefully unrolled so neither would tear, 

one of the pair at a time, 
from inside out with fingers and thumb, 
beginning with toes, 
moving over the knees 
with habitual reverence. 
I tried not to stare. 

And I knew about the men 
with the knots at their necks, 

and knew that for Jesus 
even my father would wear thin manly bands
which circled, like elders at a blessing, 
the white-root flesh of his calves. 

He’d slide the fasteners, 
copper tithing coins, snugly along 
with the tops of his argyles 
into their slots 
which held them up and perfectly square 
like a sanctified prayer. 

Garters those days 
could keep any sort from slouching, 
even in warm Sabbath air.