At night, she says, I hear drawers and cupboard doors
Opening and closing in his house.
Three of us together talk of the soul
that has somehow been lost to us.
Her Lutheran pastor is a Buddhist.
She is teaching Africans Indonesian.
They learn to hide the self in their sentences.
His house remembers her in photographs.
We eat arancini, vego pizza, onion tart,
Giving pause to the slaughter of animals
For this one night.
She once dreamed of his dead wife
Asking her over and over if
she would look after him.
All right, all right, okay, okay, she said
And the ghostly wife was satisfied.
I know I have a sickness, but I’m not sure
If it is mortality or something more serious.
Later we search the house but cannot find
The password to the Wi-Fi.
It is like losing my soul all over again.
At night I hear the jet planes leaving
And a loose tin sheet on the roof complaining
To the wind.
At dawn I am woken by the sound
Of an unseen neighbour playing snooker,
Tap of ball on ball then the rumble
As one is pocketed.
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