I’m coming back on All Saints’ Day
for your olives, old peanuts and dodgy sherry,
dirty dancing. I’ll cross-dress at last
pirouette and flash, act pissed.
You’ll have to look for me hard:
search for my bones in the crowd.
Or lay a pint and a pie on my grave to tempt me out
and a trail of marigolds back to the flat,
where you’ll leave the door ajar
and the cushions plumped in my old armchair.
– Jo Shapcott (1953-)