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This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

Exorcism

Christopher Gaskins

Bitter, it isn’t, this
rock-bottom rage, out of nowhere anger neither born
nor bred, just
plopped down inside me, kept
slithering in

place for month after month, dispersing
like worms and leaving
the scene of
origin only to poison the limbs, then
curdle the conscience.

I love you like this where I sever bare-handed
air we had breathed,
your attention which scurried for
a blonde-haired
replacement. It took no time at all.

My thrown-up lunch
was as yet still warm in puddles rippling atop
the carpet.
Every light bulb here, now, is either
loosened

or gone. I’m in a dark more blue
than black and passing this Marlboro phallus from
fingers to
lips, lit red in the glow
of its cremating tip,

curled on the couch with my feet
underneath me, inhaling
smoother,
ignoring the creeping-in cancerous effect, the
slackening body.

It all runs over-
the squishing and squirming of
festering hatred.
I’ve yet to forget your sudden amnesia as I
stood there in quicksand,

waving and nodding as if I were
stupid
and somehow confused. Politely, I smiled, said “hi”
to your beau
in the sweetest of drones, bearing my burden:

a remembrance of you
fully mounted behind me and gasping
“I love you”
as your emptying penis convulsed in erection,
burrowing onward

and past the hipbone, held in place as I alone
rose up to melt,
split not
unlike a passage home, two
halves divided.

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