My aunts mentioned her just once,
calling her my aunt, their sister,
though she wasn't. They mentioned
the vinyl recliner in the kitchen,
the "I Like Ike" poster, the Sacred Heart,
cabbage smells, sulfur, and shame.

Before jolted by the gift that called
through but never really for her,
she became unpleasantly calm.
Moments later, after she said
"I don't want this please," God's love
raced down the pulse into her look.

It was as if her things spoke back:
a table leg scraped the floor, a fork
wobbled in a drawer, knickknacks fell.
She nearly died each time it happened.
They said her mind just wasn't there,
or she wasn't in it anymore.

She sat helpless afterward,
papery when they lifted her
from vision seat to bed. The might
to move what her eye fell upon
is the image of her I keep,
her iridescent readiness.