1.
Barbara doesn’t recognize the aria
She whiskers her way through the living room, smiling

I keep an engine in my back pocket
crouch in the passenger’s seat praying spinning tires will find traction somewhere
Barbara reminds me why I prefer museums to country fairs

A room full of relatives, and relatively speaking I do not know them
they have Bruce’s eyes-
GIVE THEM BACK.

2.
Moose is playing Andrea Bocelli in the car
“this is your favorite aria,” he says conducting maybe
looking for some footing Barbara tells me again how she played Mary Queen of Scots in college

And is visibly annoyed that my grandmother Adele still exceeds her in years

which brings me to grammy growing holes in her nightgown
her growling
thirst is a dangerous supplicant      she is cranky and empty once
I told grammy that she and bruce fit like puzzle pieces
perhaps
I’ll visit Arlington one day real soon

3.
I remember shells firing Aunt Julie’s hip a muddled procession
my grandfather’s ashes        a vase in the dining room 

swirling dust mites, or memories stifling I’m fantasizing about living alone
with my moth-ishness

call solitude the sun reflecting off the moon an aching mirror that grandmother
watched from the back porch      grandfather’s legs thickest at the knee his voice an empty hatbox dangling
on the other end of the phone line
asking for my father 

I call my mother every time my guilt grows feet

4.
the house I lived in replaced by
room for my children I am an empty
sugar bowl my hands are
not suggesting any metaphors

I sit in the back seat and tell Barbara
it must have been lovely,
playing the queen.