A
Letter from Aunt Vinnie
Sister
Martha, at ninety-three, shocks her with curses, croaking
so loud she wishes it time
to set out on the ice floe.
She
polishes her Mama's stemware, each glass so clear Vinnie shivers
in her bones at nothing but the touch.
She
is building her nest, would prefer that you not drop in. She has
placed orange tiger lilies, tang grass to catch the light, left open space under the trail of O'Keeffe's road.
There
are two old wooden chairs, a
small tea table, a china pot, handle turned out, two cups, bone white, a
slim green bottle of Perrier.
Some
day, she says, you might be welcome.
But
for today: there is this place, wild ivy tumbling from a planter overhead, the cool room, splashed with wild flowers; and only an occasional scream from Sister Martha in the distant bed. |