when i was a little girl
allowed to roam
through the backrooms of
the house shared by my great aunts
ancient
spinster sisters
jo ann and mary alys
whose Bates brothers all passed before
i didn’t mind the obligatory visits
imposed by my mother and sister so much
.
finding photographs of glory faded
antique wash basins and ceramic kittens
delicate baubles in satin boxes
fine dresses who had given up on finding love
bobby pins on china saucers atop
a vanity avoided because no one wanted to see
what it had to show
.
until i was five i thought jo ann
was a man
an old farmer in mens clothes
who smoked constantly
cut her hair short
and squatted like our indian ancestors
talking of her land
loyals dogs
sturdy tractors
whose barn had burned
tidbits you orta know
a lesbian of a time one didn’t acknowledge
such things
baptist blasphemy running through
her country bones
.
mary alys
the once beautiful bride
whose wealthy husband cecil had died
leaving her childless
grieving
though she seemed content
to remain married to his ghost
so feminine she was
pin curls
perfectly filed long
nicotine yellow nails
too many rings
a forked tongued
wicked gossip
oral histories
slim pointy nose
judging everyone whilst wearing
pink polyester and
knee high panty hose
.
two women were never more different
yet to me
they were symbiotic halves
of a singular tale of family woe
.
jo ann on her side of the sitting room
reading the paper
and mary alys
applying ponds cold cream to her face
and lotion to her transparent
blue veined soft hands
claiming she intended to make
a pretty corpse
.
jo ann went first
ate up with cancer
mary alys died later
of meaness
i suppose