Awaking pit bull early
at the tinsel witching
sound of Aunt Alma’s
high-pitched voice.
Not really a Pisces
boastful loud,
but a not-before-
my-coffee loud.
Tell her no, hon.
I say not a word
as I trudge
to my saving awakener
and pour soprano wing
life into me.
I sip,
still listening to her rattle,
feeling squeamish—
and guilty—cause
I want her gone.
“Today’s been twenty years.”
I hear her say.
And I remember:
the tractor accident
of husband Paul.
A face as dry
and wizened
as the Sabine County
river bed.
Thin, Sophocles blue-veined hands;
tears falling now from rheumy blankness.
I want her gone! Now!
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