Traveling Broke & Ugly

My husband doesn’t believe me—that the dogs barked nightly

at the spirit in the corner of the kitchen. That I knew of a family

whose quilts were flung against the wall mid-sleep. Once, I told him

I met Satan in Scandinavia, and she had pigtails and a machete

sticky with spiderwort. She couldn’t have been older than six

or seven. Her ancestors were Vikings. They boiled firestarters in urine

and when she approached me, she laughed and called me ugly

three times: stygg stygg stygg. With the same gurgle of the growling

dogs. With a film over her eyes, bobbled back into her head. Then

she giggled and ran away. Later in the hotel room, I anointed

my forehead with oil—right thumb tracing the Sign of the Cross,

howling in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit

amen. Propulsion and smelt-speak until the crows flew off. God blessed

river God mothering gift, I threaded three needles with my mouth

and cast them out behind me, amen. Whose ghost sent a child

peeling a mango with her teeth? They say when a spirit leaves a room

you’ll feel a sudden calmness or maybe you’ll feel cold,

a kiss on your cheek. I felt hot and full of brisket. No,

I felt a web of algae stuck to my face. Electroshock and thundering

stacked spoons. I saw the face of Christ looking up at me

and she had pigtails. I—curled inside the musket’s mouth: a rust-worm,

a ramshackle, spiritual aftertaste. A penny always on my tongue.