Poetry

The Exorcist

The territory grows old now,

all the graves are quiet. Outrage

lies buried under rubble

with the corpse of the black rat.

Someone called off the wolves,

muzzled their slabber jaws.

Ectoplasm has eaten itself, and the poltergeist

who blunted my knives

is pickled raw in a glass bottle

under the sink with the bleach.

The ouija board spells benign messages

like ‘change that light bulb’,

‘you’re out of milk’,

‘time is a hate grealer...’

The night garden lends hooting owls,

silver leaves glimmer under the rain.

Caroline Butler

© 2014