My habit has been to hide
once I know he’s around,
to deny his presence, the fright that
springs from every cell,
my body on scream.
I harm myself forcing me
to do his will – ‘Keep going’
I screech cruelly, soundlessly,
‘so what if it hurts,
You cannot afford to feel’.
At 3 AM I shoveled ice
with strength I no longer have
driven by his demonic voice.
He’d already murdered the day before.
My grouse whose delicate spiral
footprints brought joy to
my heart became his first kill.
Continue reading “Father Root by Sara Wright”
Feminism and Religion 