Jo McDougall

Kissing

One scene from my childhood:  
Spending the night at my Aunt Eva’s, 
I have come downstairs at midnight 
for a glass of milk. 
She and her husband, Ferdinand, 
sit at the kitchen table, their backs to me. 
His left trouser leg 
is rolled up to his thigh. 
The stump of the leg he lost under a tractor 
is propped on a stool, 
gleaming in the lamplight. 
My aunt and uncle bend above it, 
laughing uncontrollably and kissing.