That is not me talking. Those aren’t my lips,
fingers, tongue. I stepped aside. I let in

and then exhaled out. Possess you. Eclipse
you. This Ancient will prevail. Ancient skin.

Ancient name. Ancient dreams. Balsam, wet root,
limestone. Those weren’t my scents. That wasn’t my boast.

They all came when I stood down. This queen-brute
dressed up in a kimono. This girl ghost

who came back from the other side. Karma
means not a thing. No one is saved. Ancient

soul from before time who will make your death
rattle sound like a low hallelujah,

the gasp of surprise and awe a moment
before orgasm, faith’s very last breath.