ja’net danielo

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letting the ghosts in

               --after gabrielle calvocoressi

Everywhere, everyone is letting the ghosts in. They’re peeling the skin back like a flap, unbraiding muscle,   saying, Here  are my bones. Make yourself at home.    So the ghosts do. They slip between     ribs,    fill chests   with molted skins—  dust   of ghost towns and the hungry ghost lives that inhabit and haunt them.  They sing             into spaces          stripped of name,        scrubbed clean       of bird and song, survive on offerings of bread for their bellies,   honey      for their throats. And breath.       The more they take, the more      they sing. Now everyone is honey throat. Everyone is soft ghost  and breath and song. And everyone bones. Everyone is bones.

 
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