The Fieldstone Review

On Writing

and then there was blood in her
eyes, running over cheeks like tears.
I’m in a stadium of twenty thousand
praying people and this four foot
Mexican woman is screaming now,
grabbing Luis by the front of his robes,
flinging him down a row of seats,
chairs rippling over the monk.
It’s my first year in the monastery
and I’m thinking this bitch is gonna
get socked for throwing Friar
Luis when this priest shows up,
right out of the crowd. And he
is praying, and there’s a bible
in his hands, and the words are
flowing from English to Spanish
to Latin. The woman seems smaller
now, hooting, screeching, writhing
in her seat like a snake and someone
whispers “Exorcism.” The priest
flicks his wrist, calls me over, and I’m
holding a bible for him now, as he reads,
but I can tell he’s not even looking at it,
this is rhythm, this is practiced,
and I can’t wait for this to be over,
and all the faces around me are dark,
the stadium lights off. But it’s like they
see more than a woman with bloody
eyes, and I keep thinking if she moves
again I’m dropping this bible,
and kicking her fucking ass.