My Church Called Their Exorcism Program Healing House

by Stacy Boe Miller

Oh you’re a tough one, my pastor’s wife laughed 
     when the demon inside me screamed
Fuck you! I blamed Eve
that bitch, who could have eaten from
     any other tree. She curled inside me
like a tapeworm, woke me with a hunger
parade in my throat. How
    did I feel when I kissed 
a woman? My pastor told me to
name it     pull it away from my chest. Shame
     stitched the truth to the tender pink
of my gums so I only whispered, Filthy.
My mother used a seam ripper when she sewed 
     mistakes. In the bright of her room, tearing
threads for a fresh start. I am still tugging at the way 
I should have answered.    That is to say,
     when I kissed her we shivered as if we were
cold, but we weren’t, and we were brave 
so we didn’t close our eyes. I held
     my breath all day. I might still be   
holding my breath.     That is to say 
kissing her made me feel like water
      must feel when a well is finally dug,
when all that buried shimmer 
witches its way to the surface, when
     from under a famined clay, something,
dear god     reveals itself as life.