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One supports old aunts, thin and broken,
like they were sacks of the brightest bones,
encased in bodies limp with time's ache,
dark as their rooms at night. Nearly 100,
pressed to my shoulder of middle-age, she is lifted
to her pot, to a future of female dust,
of gray light, and its inexplicable start,
of windows stared at, gods of the compromised,
of iced eyes, of iced hands, twisted as mortals,
and life ringing grimly with truths at the end.
The truth is rain, within the world of eyes,
within her fingers of bland bone, clamped on me.
Lamont Palmer
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