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.