Speaking In Tongues

　　by Mary Rose O'Reilley

　　 I go to church every Sunday

　　 though I don't believe a word of it，

　　 because the longing for God

　　 is a prayer said in the bones.

　　 When people call on Jesus

　　 I move to a place in the body

　　 where such words rise，

　　 one of the valleys

　　 where hope pins itself to desire；

　　 we have so much landscape like that

　　 you'd think we were made

　　 to sustain a cry.

　　 When the old men around me

　　 lift their hands

　　 as though someone has cornered them，

　　 giving it all away，

　　 I remember a dock on the estuary，

　　 watching a heron get airborne against the odds.

　　 It's the transitional moment that baffles me-

　　 how she composes her rickety

　　 grocery cart of a body

　　 to make that flight.

　　 The pine siskin， stalled on a windy coast，

　　 remembers the woods

　　 she will long for when needs arise； so

　　 the boreal forest composes itself in my mind：

　　 first as a rift， absence，

　　 then in a tumble of words

　　 undone from sense， like the stutter

　　 you hear when somebody falls over the cliff of language. Call it a gift.

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