The cross was for a Russian Orthodox Church,
with it’s slanted bar, pointing to heaven, pointing to hell.
The exorcist wiped the sweat from her brow,
and drank the water from the families deep and cold well.
Momma held the girl, the girl who’d been possessed,
holding her to her breast, rocking her, singing in her ear.
The girl was stunned and silent, still not back to the waking world,
her eye didn’t not blink, and they didn’t even tear.
The slanted bar, one way went to heaven, the other to hell.
This mountain town was half-way between them, either way to go.
The exorcists mind still had echoes and voices of the demons,
felt the lick of the fires, that suffocating darkness we to easily know.
Momma continued to sing her hymns and lullabies,
and the girl was finally drifting, to heal among bad, frantic dreams.
The sun was coming up after the war of the night, the wind soft and cold,
and momma was crying, and her tears were silver in the waning moonbeams.
The exorcist said a prayer over momma and the girl, blessed them with holy water,
drew ashen crosses on their foreheads, all to give a new beginning.
The day was coming around again, and night would follow, and on and on,
and will and patience and virtue break down, and with the night comes sinning.
They go inside, the exorcist, momma and the girl. Momma and girl cuddle up
on a flat and aged mattress, and the exorcist places a thin blanker over them.
The girl is finally asleep, and momma soon follows from the terror and exhaustion.
The exorcist sits on the floor, watches them. The darkness flickers, does not dim.