Glossolalia

The way my tongue 

refused to say the name of the Almighty

without adding another m or two.

The way God’s word 

flared from flaming bushes, 

reverberated inside the drum 

of a stammerer’s ear.

The way He turned little Egyptian bodies

ripe for mummification.

The way maternal wails rose from unmarked homes.

Yes, we’ll have 

that conversation, Lord; I insist,

as I insist 

on my right to speak and question 

Your existence 

and presence, even with repetitions and prolongations. 

I insist on knowing 

why you let a generation of firstborns 

die.

Or why you allowed me 

to live.

Why, as a child, I lost 60 decibels of hearing.

Why, 

fluent as Moses, I sputtered

out a language 

so mashed it might as well have been another, 

one 

often understood

by only you.