ghost currencies trading dead moths & bees, the ghosts sit in the attic & talk about tastycakes. how once they could taste soft yellow cake & once feel powdered sugar on their fingers. the house is made of backwards. a little boy whose head fell off. two women with teeth for eyes. what they don't tell you about death is you can grow. your spirit asking all the questions it wasn't allowed to in life. a man with the heaviest boots. he paces & paces. birds fly from his mouth whenever he opens it. amoung them i sit as a little girl playing with plastic dinosaurs. i tell them i understand it is hard to hand fingers when there's winter always coming to pluck them. i wear my hair in two pony tails. the ghosts give me beetles & napkins & thumb tacs. wisdom is a caurousel. always coming back around to the body you are. not from age or experience but from radio tower spines. i tell the ghosts i want to be one of them & they tell me the sun is made of mandarin orange today. that i should eat. that i should hold a penny like a new face & see what else will open. they cannot leave the attic despite my begging. i do not want to remember my blood & my legs. i want to be rich in the currencies of the dead. i want to see what they do. once, i asked the girl what i looked like & she laughed & said, "a dark sea of pillars." when i returned i looked in the mirror & tried so hard to see it. instead, i just saw a moth banging his head against a white hot bathroom light. i waited for him to fall. his little windup toy life. collected him as tender.