Monday, 6 August 2012
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’
and the liquid winked in the light.