Tongues
The heat at thirteen. Heat
from riled bodies, slow
swaying, summer dark;
evening service at Jesus Camp.
Sheltered from the dimming forest,
I drape, damp, between girls, weep—
Holy Ghost fill me, give me
a secret language, keep me
in lambswool swaddle, soft grass,
twilight, thinking nothing.
My mouth edifies, garbles those holy,
senseless syllables. My eyes open
and I see faces of every age flush
and furrow, empty and asking.