Hungry Ghosts

In the damp and cold
limestone basement,
they arrive by night,
bags stuffed to the gills
with heirloom gripes.

They spread lace napkins,
pewter knives,
Waterford goblets
on the dirt floor,
and begin to keen
for bread,
for mead,
for hands of kin
to feed them
the exact tithe
for silence—

 

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