My Church Called Their Exorcism Program Healing House

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Academy of American Poets Prize Winner, 2018

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.