Dinner Party

Dorsía Smith Silva

For once, somebody else’s ghosts arrive. I take

their 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 wings

with baby powder. Oh, I taunt-tug on their

bone-cruncher bodices and make their tongues wiggle all

forks of black. The ghosts tell me I’m in luck.

No, they do not ask me to blow into their mouths or

parley 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 paperweight

volume of the Wingback chairs — wring the puce of them.

If they could, they would lap up tributaries to my fledging

misdeeds. In flashback, this is called a rescue mission.


about the author