There is nothing intentional about

twenty-eight limbs and seven heads

stumbling against a screen door

so that it knocks against the doorframe

stutteringly. An unpracticed tangle of

spirits might accidentally jog

piano keys, break tea cups of coffee,

slice bread raggedly by scratching

contorted backs on cupboards or

counter awnings. Your special

spook camera arrived in an unmarked

box. Through it you think you have seen

one or two spirits an orb of blurry

light what could be, squinting,

a translucent human. Your special spook

camera is a scam. If it worked, it would

actually reveal aggregates of spirits

arranged in many limbed mandalas,

gyrating like ink blots. When you die

movement becomes something between

a wheel and a centipede. The truth is,

if you have not already, you may want

to begin to prepare for futile writhing.

Celeste Rose Wood’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, OCCULUM, Corvus Review, River River, and Barking Sycamores. As a hermit, i.e. agoraphobic, she thinks it sucks that many people buy into capitalism’s opinion of “disability entitlement” as dirty words. Her dreams are of things like necromancy, mermaids, and healthcare for everyone.

Image by Andrew Logan

#poetry #celesterosewood #ghosts #boneandink #vol7