Ghosts are lifting my bones, sorting and weighing them. They are washing my femurs to hang curtains from, using my patellae as saucers. They are taking apart my fingers and toes, joint by joint and crafting type-writer keys. My scapulae make good tools: a trowel, a head for a scythe.
Mother ghost strings up my ribs – wind chimes for her little ones. My pelvis becomes the frame for a baby rocker.
My skin is stretched over hollow barrels and the older wisp children drum the beat of a stopping heart with my radius, ulna, fibula and tibia.
My skull is hung from the ceiling; a bulb wedged between my jaws, my eye sockets become two beacons of light.
And what of my spine? Well, it’s a xylophone to summon all the spirits to supper.
Dublin-based Bayveen O’Connell goes scratching at dark and forgotten things with her writer’s quill. Her ink has appeared in Molotov Cocktail, Drabblez Magazine and The Cabinet of Heed #9. Find her at bayveenoconnell.com