Reassembling the Ghost

You can still reassemble the ghost

             whose hand parted the gauze nettings at night,

wanting one last touch—an ivory key, soft

            whirr of a cab engine waiting its summons;

a lamp post shrouded in bridal veils

          of palest wings. When you are conjuring 

a ghost, you search through the kitchen

          for acceptable offerings: a tin of luncheon

meat, a dimpled orange, a pour of Calvados

          in a shot glass. What you are hungry for in this

life, you can be hungry for in the next. Press

           a coin into its hand when it comes calling.

Remember to tear off the broiled wing at 
           
            the joint, pinch the boiled rice into a small hill.