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viAceral pagoda 

SPEAKING IN TONGUES 
M. Kouroubetes 

I was told by a friend 
Pentecostal Women 
are a furnace waiting 
to open its grate. 

At Calvary Temple's Sunday 
service 
she sat next to me, 
Amen air, 
plates of dollars like 
Caesar salads floating by. 

I sang off key. 
She smiled. 

Sun rising, 
her calves hitched 
over my shoulders 
Missionaries 
in a jungle 
sweating malaria. 

"Were you born with that?" she shuddered 
"It's from the first supper." 
"Delicious." 
"Non-fattening," I replied. 

"I like you," she said. 
"I like you," I said. 

Then 
her mouth shut like 
a fist, a red string from her 
lip lining down 
her neck, 
eyes rolling to 
egg 
white 

Tongue whipping cryptic 
"A I 0 U Alla All he A I 0 U Shelaba Laa ..." 

"Labia," I cried, "labia." 

After the flesh dove 
delivered its message 
She made me 
pray for her 
period 
because little angels 
can't cross 
streams of blood. 


