Previously published in Anemone Sidecar
Some ghosts can only be seen through a veil. Others are little more than a fragrance or an occasional glimmer; a brightening on the edge of the silver or a misting of the glass on a portrait. Some are nothing but my shaking fingers.
On occasion I will powder my body with talcum and meet them, lips painted with ash. A certain lady I meet in my slip, turned the ruined color of ivory; along the hem, small holes from teething moths. On those nights I pour brandy into cordial glasses. Thick pear brandy. A syrupy swill in my mouth.
Sometimes, in a dialect of spitting and growling, they attempt to move my tongue. Other times, I cough into a thin white napkin and read the spots of blood.
