Auntie
Eyes narrowed with focus,
I search her round and weary face
in the rearview mirror and wait.
Nothing.
I scan for potholes and wreckage
disturbing the blacktop stretch.
Empty.
I glance at my steering,
purple-nailed-polished hands—
maybe they’ll tremor too.
I pull up to the lemon drop house
the white, white porch overjoyed
with pumpkins pretending to be turkeys.
Soft, out-of-bottle brown curls
emerge from the backseat
I get out to help.
I’m met with worldly eyes
behind mauve cat-eye glasses,
even the rhinestones wink.
Gracias, Preciosa
her honeyed voice says.
Inside, the house rings
with chatter and the distinct voices
of Uncle Gene and mom.
They all flutter to Auntie
and I step back to watch.
Uncle Gene, still brawny at fifty-four
leads her in, gait shortened to match hers
and there it is.
Back quivered gruesomely.
That’s no hiccup, no myoclonic jerk—
it’s a wretched evil.
