Drawing of a female skeleton, 1759
She is a village, tiny in the distance.
Her hand turns inward, come
to the village, I will bake bread, I will
not breathe too much, my feet are small.
My ribcage is as narrow
as you like. I grow bluebells
along the village walls, I am allowed to,
they are mine for the while.
Sometimes I am a cat in the shape of a woman,
I slip around doorways, unfurl
the insides of mice and birds, a knitting I know.
Watch me, her other hand curls,
watch and be amazed.