The sofa she lounged on—
with Michener, with Updike and Roth—
was not burnished, not a throne,
but though she’s been dead
years now, it burns.
Against cloth of Harvest Gold,
her curls gleamed—
Summer Blonde by Clairol—
and bright flecks gilded the glass
she drank from, like alluvium washed
down from great heights. As for her person,
her aspect could vanquish
the Stygian gloom of any bar.
My sisters and I, no matter the hour,
would attend her. Bound
as we were, by blood. On occasion,
my father would leave the house
and return with a paper bag, brimful
of Oh! Henrys and Cadbury Creams.
She wouldn’t get up. But what there was,
she’d polish off in small, tragic bites.