For his numbered days
The call of the richly-laden
Table is a siren-song.
His wife’s anxious sighs
Are no obstacle; he unlearns
The lechon’s lesson on self-control.
He sets his sight on the upright
Ears and curly tail which soon
Will crackle with his toothy delight.
He is more than ready, anyway,
To answer St. Peter’s roll-call.
Meanwhile — ah, forget the cholesterol!
* * *
The intricate embroidery
In Auntie’s blouse is as delicate
As the nuanced allusions
To Uncle’s infidelity.
Our guesses are as wanton
As the women painted in Uncle’s life
By guests, and whispered by kin
Inside the house ordered cleared by Auntie.
Eyes stare and icy silence creeps
Up and down the stairs. Light
And shadow chase each other
As in the embroidery in Auntie’s blouse.