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.

Jo McDougall | In the Home of the Famous Dead, 2015