Black Moroni

Painted on the wall behind the seats where choir sings 
See the shining figure in a steep green wood 
Angel wears a shirtwaist robe, fabric wing as thin as filament
He looks downslope where Joseph kneels, treasure spread in dirt
Moroni’s hair descends his neck in alabaster rolls 
His bare feet tread the air above the forest floor 
Light he sheds not only notches bark of pine and birch 
It breaks the frame, transcends the painting 
Falls on pews below where angel is 

Made flesh: Curly-headed black child 
Named Moroni for a prophet in his folks’ new church 
He’s comfortable in cocoa-colored skin 
Sensual curl of hip and thigh, framed to mother’s breast
And like another baby, born in the meridian 
Of Mormon time, his laugh is whole and unashamed 
Lucid eyes obsidian, lashes thick, brows arched high 
Something in this black Moroni prophesies 
Of truce between the body and the soul