your dead aunt

your aunt in a casket,
is finally quiet,
still as a single pale
pear in an otherwise
empty bowl. she's dressed
in what looks like
a lace shawl over
a black pilgrim's dress.
you question her religion,
if she had one.
her eyes are closed. thank god.
her hands are folded
on her chest. you see a green
stone ring on her finger.
someone has pressed a few
stems of flowers into the nook
of her fists. she may rise
and put them in a vase
any minute now.
she looks baked.
white, with powdery skin,
a pastry display item
in a store window.
no one is crying. she's ninety,
so anyone that would have
cried is dead too.
there is small talk that she
may have had an affair
with john kennedy which someone
quickly corrects and whispers,
joe. she was a looker in her day.
but you can't remember
any of those days, she's
always looked like this
to you. her face pinched
with lemon.
always sweeping her stoop
with a straw broom
and yelling out curses
in Italian. sometimes she'd
throw candy into the street
to make the kids go away.
some would, some wouldn't.