I held a séance over your flesh,
my grasped hands circling the table.
Candlelight lit my previous selves,
who all showed up for the occasion.
We quieted ourselves and begged,
I told me that we were in contact,
that the spirits were with us,
as your pieces came tumbling out,
from one old me’s opened mouth,
parted lips, birthing fallen dead gods,
dispelling your breast, or part of it.
Then another me, spat out our past,
it flopped like a newly caught fish.
The other me, possessed, said a prayer,
a loamy recitation filling clutched hands.
Wax dribbled down across my belly,
a certain scar, misplaced and below,
mirrored the miracle plough's course,
a crescent, furrowing your revived skin,
across you, our familiar’s right breast,
which we kissed and welcomed home.
The ghosts began to speak, in tongues,
warning against the new frontier of hope.
Quitting, I placed the Ace of Swords down,
on your scar, and poured my tears out,
in the wasteland of our tempered promise.