Like a piece of lemon sole,
Aunt Clara was deboned.
A man had come, she owned,
scooped her up whole,
and pulled out every line
that held her straight.
We found her, as on a plate,
claiming she was fine,
still retaining her shape,
decorated with parsley.
We would scarcely
know she’d had a scrape
but for moving her—
then it was a case
of lifting all at once, at pace,
or else disproving her
form completely.
We got the feeling
she liked it some, this being freewheeling.
She would stay discreetly
this way, thank
you very much.
You can look, but don’t touch.
Our hearts sank
to think of what he stole
from her and what she was forsaking.
But she was good at faking
being whole.