A Maiden Aunt
Wanting
to arrange some words on a page,
I
suddenly recall my Aunt Mary’s hands:
how,
beneath the loud exuberant voice
that
so annoyed my parents, unremarked,
her
slim, turquoise-veined fingers
roamed
alertly over the silverware and china
she’d
washed and polished earlier,
setting
out the places where we’d eat
our
once-a-year dinner in her home.
