Mother, this home is infectedwith demons, every rooma photograph of the tragedieswe performed many a night.
Frightening is the bedroom whereI threatened to hit youif you didn’t give me money orthe kitchen where I threatened suicideif you dragged me into Sacrament Meetingone more sunday. We need
a Bishop to cleanse this home,which is no longer a home butan echo chamber of conflictso loud the police were notified.I say that you’re no longer my motherout of fancied betrayal, for how could youbanish your own donated progeny toa cell unfit for humans?
Years later, when I write this,adequate enough to shape andcompress my life into lines and stanzas,I believe I will have my answer, then,when our home is finally exorcised.
Photo by Kerensa Pickett on Unsplash