By air, earth, fire, and blood in my veins, I
know something of the devil. He stood
over my sister’s bed. At times God stops
protecting us, explained our minister.
Of course, this was post-reformation. Neither
gold nor graven image entered my childhood
Assembly of God of the folding chair
and drop ceiling. Our joys were not
material but ecstatic. In Queens,
the holy spirit floated over us
as tongues of flame. Our voices rose. Our young
men saw visions, our old men dreamed dreams.
As for the women, we lay on the floor.
We called this being slain in the spirit.