KETTLE IN THE WIND

"What if I'm a woman?"

"But you're not," said the gravedigger, without ceasing to dig. "Not anymore, anyway. You're a ghost. Ghosts are neither female nor male. Not really. They don't have bodies, you see? They're just ghosts."

"Like the minds of writers?"

"That's a different kind of ghost," said the gravedigger, sinking the spade into the ground again. "They tend to haunt libraries. As books, mostly. Not graveyards. Not usually."

"What about poets?"

"Poets?" The gravedigger scoffed. "They haunt everything. Bare trees in winter. Blossoms in spring. A smile, a frown. A wink! They'll haunt the whistle in your kettle if you let them."

For a long time, there was no sound but that of the spade digging a grave. Then, a blackbird sang. A robin, too. The sun was almost setting. Shadows unfolded their hands, ready to hold the graveyard again.

"What if I’m a poet?"

The gravedigger sighed, leaned on the heavy spade, and gazed at the freshly cut mouth in the ground. It looked more like a smile than a wound. "I'm beginning to think you might be, yes."

"Do you own a kettle?"

"I do."

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