at how
strong she was breaking the ropes
that were around
her boney wrists and ankles,
tying her to the bed posts while
Father Smith
threw Holy Water
on her writhing body,
trying to cast out the demons
that had taken over her soul.
she snapped those ropes like
Conan the Barbarian,
and then levitated
while she laughed in Latin,
she started singing
a song from grade school,
Mary had a Little Lamb,
in French then
tossed out her mother's split pea
soup with ham
onto the walls,
making me send an emergency
911 text
to my housekeeper, Milagro.
Father Smith looked at me
and whispered, be strong
my son, have faith,
but my advice is to not get married
again, ever.
okay? promise?
promise, i told him,
cross my heart.
save that he said,
it's going to be a long night,
put some coffee on
and grab the big net
and chains.
i believe she keeps a pitchfork
in the hall.
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