Exorcism in the Middle Ages

To ladders lashed and raised
in smoky orange endlessness,
the licking of the flames
and cries from far below
your single sign of worldliness,
you pray to burn the Devil out.
 
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From your pocket as you burn
dangle earbuds plugged into
a smartphone sweating in its case.
 
The sticks from which the stake
is raised are called faggots,
hence the slur, since that was how
they dealt with unrepentant queers
(or so your father said,
and o how he enjoyed the fact!)
 
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Whatever form the trial takes
you take it with you on the road
to Galilee or grave.
 
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The savouring of salt at baptism.
The rites of prayer to bless
that bitter spice and cast out its creature.
The water and the stone basin.
The baby’s frail head.
 
You wonder what you missed.
Stood outside the church in
a pocket of night, as morning
caresses the slate. You crave
that unpolluted salt.  
Glutted with sweets,
the blackened gums protest.
 
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The priest would exorcise objects
to rinse out Nature's tupperware
of Satan's cruel experiments.
 
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Spinning on its axis in
a fairground mockery,
the cross takes flame
as red-skirted chrysanthemums
bloom out of marble urns
and sunlight in the churchyard runs
to an unseen gutter.
A goat ascends the pulpit and
we pray:
 
Beyond Your blackest sacraments,
behind the wall-hangings of Hell,
so effortlessly sewn
with ligature as thread,
is a truth that's humbling and sheer...
that none of it compares,
the golden calfs and graven eyes,
to ordinary wickedness.