Ekphrastic for Cheselden’s Skeleton, 1733
Hands up, knees bent—Cheselden’s skeleton says his prayers
before bed. His mother has perhaps made him a mug of hot
chocolate, read him ghost stories in which the supernatural
saves the day this time. Maybe his father is working late
or his father has been laid-off. The skeleton teases
his sister too much, maybe, or carries her books to school.
Maybe Cheselden’s skeleton has just thrown a tantrum.
Cheselden’s skeleton is not allowed to play video games
or close the door when entertaining other skeletons.
Maybe Cheselden’s skeleton is a problem student. Maybe
Cheselden’s skeleton makes straight As. No one knows
why Cheselden’s skeleton is praying, only that his eye
sockets gleam with intention, his mandible twitching
open with a crack or a startling pop. Cheselden’s skeleton
has perfect ribs, perhaps tells imperfect fibs. His arms
betray each ligament. He is hollow to the touch.
Cheselden’s skeleton’s feet are large, flat, and
pointless: he can’t run, can’t move a single ivory
muscle away from the cemetery inside his heart.
Mama and papa skeleton have hung up a nice
vest for him in the closet—maybe there will be a parade
tomorrow, a waking or walking of the dead.
Cheselden’s skeleton freezes like a snow
rabbit, cranium itching in the cold.
