Blueprint for a Ghost Cycle // Celeste Rose Wood

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.