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.