PRESENT

Whistlers in the dark want to believe 

The past doesn't change. Done, 

They say, is done; God Himself cannot

Say "Let that moment not have been."

Not so, it seems. My Aunt Edith,

Until recently, never lived to be my aunt

Since she imprudently died when she

Was just a few months old. Still,

I've done what I can for her, remarking 

On her sense of humor, her taste 

In hats, her relative tallness that would

Have let her loom slowly over her short

Quicksilver sisters. Now, I've found

A book of hers. The thing was cleverly done.

I've bought many books in many places;

Discovering one of which I've no memory 

Is not surprising. If I saw

Catullus' poems I might well buy it,

Especially if I also liked the translator

And I like Horace Gregory. But this book --

Black, pleasantly worn, illustrated in

A style somewhere between Beardsley 

And Flaxman -- I think I never bought. 

Inside, a signature, in the handwriting 

My aunts all shared except for Rose 

Who was left-handed. It says 

"Edith Silver. June 14, 1932."