Felted Feet of the Ouija oracle

Are soft. Moving gently over the glossy surface of the cardboard. Someone is moving it. There has to be someone moving it. Lights off. We're quiet. Writing down the letters as they are spelled out for us. Who shall we marry. Where shall we live. What is your name. Are you a good spirit or a bad spirit. Melanie told me she was one of the ones who moved it. Max and I sat in silence under the glow of the Virgin Mary nightlight until she burned out. Say something.
The soft felt of the oracle was meant to limit the friction of the board. Something silent, like slippers on wooden floors. Something easy for the spirit to direct the hands. Maybe it was our heart-beat that inpsired the oracle's movement across the board. Silent little girls in the darkness. Who has a crush on me. Who is talking shit behind me back. The spirit knows. Moving in between realms. Between secrets. Hearing whispers. The weightless veil of smoke in our ears and mouths. Into our pasts and futures.
Me, I'm trying to be the oracle feet. Soft and weightless and light. Vulnerable to movement. Senstive to the minute shifts of the planets above. Below. Aware. Listening. Fluids attune to the moon. Gravity weighted to the roots. Ancestors inside me, flowing in puzzle pieces in the coils of DNA, materializing scraps if I can isolate them and ask them to speak, They are all there, inside of me, with voices, with curiousities and unfinished business and skills and crafts and projects that at one time faded from their hands and reclaimed by us, by me, by the living of us. The line. Lineage. A myriad of names. My kindred, my protector, guardian, muse, somehow a culmination of this. Melange.
Around me I eat the earth and breathe the air. I meditate on deepening this relationship as well as staying light.
I know it's made-up. It's my imagination. Someone is moving the oracle.