Coming Home from the Exorcist

 

The needles and the hoses

and the cold metal table are behind me

the flailing cramps, deep in my gut

feel like loneliness, my body abandoned

by its malignant

tenant.

 

Memories of

cold rubber gloves

and the doctor's stone face

drip away

like the afterbirth of someone else's domestic dreams.

I bury the carrion fantasy

and think of brighter things, like

 

how much easier it must be

to be a man, and how much pain

an unloved child might feel,

and how babies go straight to heaven, no matter who their parents are.

 

Death is a better mother, sweetheart.

She'll never

let you go.

 

Holly Day

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