Ghost

At my Aunt’s funeral

the relatives were looking at knees and toecaps

in those little moments where words

feel not quite right – less conditioned

spots of vacancy and mystery

made empty by the undertaker screwing down a lid’s

four corners with a practical turn of his wrist.

Next day we caught sunnier weather

and my Uncle, face alight, skeleton moving,

screwed the top off a whiskey bottle

he’d had his beady-eye on for 21 years

‘You can only drink it when I’m gone’

she’d said;

and the liquid winked in the light.