her casserole

the aunt
carries in her casserole of
corn pudding
with two hands, her
piston arms
carrying the glassed weight
in front of her.
where, she says with puffed
cheeks, where
should I set it
down.
it's still hot.
be careful.
someone get this dog out
from under me
before I trip
and fall.
she'll tell you later
how it was made,
how she was up
all night and early
in the morning at the foot
of her old oven.
you feel unworthy
with what she's brought
and wish you had a better
seat to sit her
in, not the one by
the kitchen door.