by Daniel Dyal Five hundred bees and a sac of spider eggs nestled against the door frame. When I die, harvest the honey from my ribcage, probe my tongue for poison. You can make a rope out of my limbs and escape. Tuck them into my body and listen for the bells shimmering the air silver. Forget cleansing my room. Burn down the whole house. Watch as the spiders skitter from every sharp angle. A riot of bees roaring like flames. My ghost no longer huddles in the window.
Daniel Dyal is a poet from Fayetteville, WV. His hobbies include watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, crocheting, and retelling the same story multiple times.