Scribbles

I Momma, I brought an exorcist home. I spent a day in my living room, concluded the devil has to be involved. Momma, my exorcist, they say he’s really good. They say he has tips and tricks, he rains fire with wrath and roar, carries a cross, a sword. Momma, the devil don’t stand a chance, he won’t win against the Lord. Momma, I brought an exorcist home. His holy water flowed from a hose. He spoke his chants, he sang his hymns and songs. He prayed a little, then prayed some more, Memories danced across the floor. Holy fire rained in, I saw visions play, I saw you in the room we played in. For a second, the house felt whole, a warmth returned, a touch of soul. But when he cast the devil out, and broke the curses wall to wall, something else began to fall. Momma, as the room began to heal, I saw myself walk out the door. II Maybe I’ll run into you at a bus station someday. Perhaps we will get off at the same stop and walk for a while, Hoping that one of us finally finds a turn and says goodbye. Maybe I’ll say goodbye a little early and find out we were going in the same direction. Maybe we will share that awkward moment, I know I’d give an arm to be awkward with you. Maybe I’ll find you in a supermarket, Out of cash for your groceries, and I offer to pay the difference. Will that make a difference? Would that strike a conversation? Would you take my presence as a present? Did you forget my story on a shelf somewhere? Did you get busy focusing on your career? Am I the poems I forgot to finish? The storylines I scrapped? Your silence Enhances life, In all the worst ways. Your silence Is a traffic jam, Where I study the car interior, discovering new corners and the crux of all the dirt that’s gotten out of hand. It’s the loading screen that makes me look at my own reflection. It’s progress, When I so desperately long for a conclusion. Maybe one day, At the register or a bus station, I’ll see you again. Until then, My violence will remain trapped in vacant verve and volition. My scream strives for a soft speech. My poetry palpates pain that perseveres. And perhaps your presence won’t push for pleasure, But my self-love stems from self-sacrifice. So I’ll wander, in woe or worry, and wait for wilt to come, At a bus station, Or at the grocery store. Somewhere certain where I can feel it. For life drags on for decades, Death needs but a minute. -Momma, I brought an exorcist home. // Death needs but a minute. @MenAce7