Mother, this home is infected
with demons, every room
a photograph of the tragedies
we performed many a night.
Frightening is the bedroom where
I threatened to hit you
if you didn’t give me money or
the kitchen where I threatened suicide
if you dragged me into Sacrament Meeting
one more sunday. We need
a Bishop to cleanse this home,
which is no longer a home but
an echo chamber of conflict
so loud the police were notified.
I say that you’re no longer my mother
out of fancied betrayal, for how could you
banish your own donated progeny to
a cell unfit for humans?
Years later, when I write this,
adequate enough to shape and
compress my life into lines and stanzas,
I believe I will have my answer, then,
when our home is finally exorcised.