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
cold rubber gloves
and the doctor's stone face
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.
let you go.
yOni now blogging at cliterallyspeaking.blogspot.com
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