Endings

Kim Malinowski

He anoints my feet

with olibanum

thumbs hard.

Three strokes of myrrh

across my breast.

Life. Death. Rebirth.

We fall together in the ancient way

until the stars blur.

Death is coming.

Soon I will massage myrrh into cold skin,

easing wrinkles, shining the skin,

preparing for the gods.

He cups my hand.

A palm to his chest,

feeling the pounding of his heart.

Lips tickling my neck

as we beat back death.

It won’t capture either of us tonight.

In the end, I want no tubes.

I want to glisten with oils

and breathe in the hard scent of myrrh.

Let it sing me down.

I want rose and jasmine too,

honeysuckle, every scent of life,

so that even as I inhale death,

I exhale life.

When it is my turn,

who will keep the old ways?

How will I smell of spicy musk and love?

Will the stars dress me in lace

and whisper me into the skies?