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