Suppose the poems I write are true;
God worked for a while for my Grandfather Max
Who'd somewhere acquired a banshee who,
After he died, shared my grandmother's house
With her and a shifting number of my aunts
And occasional uncles who did no housework.
My Grandfather Joe, losing his shadow because
The Army didn't keep track of it, made do
With a government-issued replacement.
My Aunt Edith both lived to be
A humorous old woman who looked good
In hats and died as a baby. She shakes her head;
"Are we, then, to have no secrets at all?"
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