Aunt Heather’s getting married again
and she’s sitting cross-legged
on my mother’s bed in two robes
and a sweater because
her heart condition leaves her
chilly.
Light bulb glow creeps
across gold wallpaper,
catches on the curling iron
my sister’s using,
gently sliding it down
inky hair,
rolling a perm into soft curls.
My mother smiles wide
with bobby pins between her teeth.
I’m in a college sweatshirt and
jeans sifting through
operas, playing them
to this intimate audience,
giggles and a
you-could-walk-down-the-
aisle-to-that-one-in-Philadelphia
four women
in a bedroom sitting yellow
against the blue night.
My lips spread into a slow smile
because her first husband
scared me, his thick arms
rippling under shirts.
Mike won’t abandon my aunt in
the intensive care unit
or use a belt to bruise and burn
my cousins’ starry skin.