For once, somebody else’s ghosts arrive. I taketheir shag coats — droopy viscose that imbibes
tendons and bones. They rummage through the dishes,bellowing for petits fours like highfalutin terns. I beat
them back from the punch bowl and laden their wingswith baby powder. Oh, I taunt-tug on their
bone-cruncher bodices and make their tongues wiggle allforks of black. The ghosts tell me I’m in luck.
No, they do not ask me to blow into their mouths orparley by the dumbwaiter heaped with zygoma.
That’s not the point. They have come to spend the night,guffaw by the chimney, and call for a jig like they
could be my body’s freshwater. And yet, they paperweightvolume of the Wingback chairs — wring the puce of them.
If they could, they would lap up tributaries to my fledgingmisdeeds. In flashback, this is called a rescue mission.
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