No one believes in ghosts I said -
no sweet wisps lingering
in the breath between dusk and dawn.
No fragile thinlings pulling at the doors
or making the curtains shimmy
with an uncle’s last breath.
They do not balk at flowers -
lilies and hibiscus clawing the corners,
or ungathered words that spill under doorframes.
But sometimes late at night
I feel the pinch of air -
the scent of ashes dancing in the garden
where she once held court
and the mirrors going dark.