My mother's aunt
had enough hair to count
and a glass eye
that could see everything my mother said
She had meticulous fingers
and talcum white wrinkles
a hunched back
and an elegance that made you silent
Her talking also made you silent
She had shutting up difficulties
and so she talked all day long and throughout her sleep
telling detailed stories with closed eyes
about Robert John y el pollo

She was old-fashioned and somewhat racist
but I forgave her because
she adored the smell of mothballs
and liked to dance with rags drenched in parafine.

Last thing I knew, she thought she was having an affair with the President.

I don't know why I talk about her in past tense
She's isn't dead yet.