Thinking: he would
never kill
my shadowy corner.
II
And in this plush chair of the Bishop's office i sit a
decade
And a half later--a Salem witch of the west explaining
her
Dull, trembling self before three Mormon men bending
above
me.
But you don't understand me, as if anyone ever has.
i had psychic abilities. But you don't want them, so
they're
Gone;
And i'm good. i no longer believe, Bish'y, that I saw
Benson
Dying
And Yourself rising above the
Twelve.
But You're still scared of me. You only want to
anoint me
And cast me out. You only want me to hide in a barn,
And belong to shadows.
You call my abilities a possession of a demon.
Papa doubted i could see; and you see me as perverted.
But you do see that i see...
That i have something with some power.
You and the Missionaries lay your hands on me...
me who left my Protestant roots so as to be rooted in
your
Family.
You put your cold hands on my forehead,
Trying to vacuum out my psychic abilities,
Which i tell you are no longer--
Trying to take away my saying that i'm okay...
i'm good.
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