No one could say how it happened,
exactly. The circumstances were
perfect. The Sunday night service
at the charismatic church had been
delivered — executed beautifully in fact —
by the qualified-by-experience pastor:
film-star confident, slick, sharp, smooth.
The groundwork of guilt had been laid
upon her. The hands were laid upon her
in familiar ways. There was chanting
in which God and the devil were invited
to listen carefully. The pastor’s pitch
and tempo began to rise and rise
and rise until with a push of his palm
on her head, he shouted in climax
OUT! Satan, we cast you OUT! She fell
to the floor, the congregation watching
their favourite scene unfold, nodding,
murmuring their pleasure approvingly.
She woke, flinch-dazed, stumbled
to her feet, newly raised from the dead,
encountering the world afresh. Blinking,
she began, “What.” The throng waited
for the “happened?” that would enable
them to chorus — A miracle! Praise Jesus!
 — and applaud the heroic conquering
they had witnessed. But she stood upright,
lifted her jaw, squared her shoulders, stared
hard at them all — at him — enunciated slowly
and clearly, “The. Fuck.”, lack of question
mark audible to all, strode out into the night,
to the rear-view sound of gasping shock
and plastic chairs hurriedly moved in the rush
to be of aid, to be the first to comfort him.
You did nothing wrong.