Yes, ghosts – by John Britten

ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY

We talked of his other dog—  

born behind the implement shed  

long before its frame betrayed it  

loose tin sail-cracking in the wind, even

then.  

Laid him silently  

near the cabbage tree—  

neither carrier or carried   

had been eating well  

but the weight was still a bloody ton.  

Cross of dry twigs.  

I was going to teach him to fly, he said  

and our drinks slackened in our fists 

those near a window blinked outward

and everyone else—  

doing the work of  

concealment of tenderness—  

regarded stained carpet in detail,  

the rarity of his open weeping  

almost as unexpected and baffling    

as the reason it occurred.  

Wallets and bottles shared, devoured,   

in failing light  

then a vote carried by

acclamation. Home to leftovers  

and yes, ghosts,   

recently interred and otherwise.  ▼

Image: Emilie - Unsplash

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