My aunt by marriage is perfection
in a nineteen-fifties way.
Dark hair, never changing, slightly teased
in weekly beauty parlor visits,
simple make-up, never over-done,
tailored slacks creased just so,
a passionless woman, cool as starch.
Her straight back bears the weight
of ever-proper posture.
A career gal, she continued to work
after assuming her wifely role,
keeper of immaculate house
done in replicated early American,
cooker of casseroles supreme,
sharer of magazine recipes.
I’ve never been below her surface
to ask those impolite questions.
Did you ever want children?
Was the religion difference
a problem? When you’re
at Mass alone, do you pray
for your husband, and
a love-filled marriage?
Did you ever love another?
We see her quick smile, hear
her soft always-at-the-right-time laugh.
When she fell from the stage
at an ELKS banquet, breaking a leg,
she was carried away on a stretcher,
bravely waving goodbye as she passed.
She did not miss her next hair appointment,
scheduled for Tuesday, 9 o’clock sharp.
