Half-Recovered

Tired Hecklebey: this was my uncle’s name.
His face was the red blown-up balloon of youthful morning
Made grotesque because he wore it late in the day. I work
All day, he liked to say and throw his hat in the air,
Missing the coat rack by several feet. Old Hecklebey,
We can’t even remember what he did for a living.

Though his wife was a piece: this is what they said.
Who said? The men who saw her in jean shorts, leaning
Sexily on the shopping cart at the P&C. Mind you, his wife
Was my aunt. Don’t talk badly about her. Her life was long,
Long and lonely. She made apostles and angels and even the Christ
From paper cutouts. She was a Christian woman who carried a camera.
She never showed her photographs to Hecklebey; we think
There was probably good reason for this.

I’m reaching the end of the poem. I don’t know. I can’t think
Why I summoned these ghosts from the cellar: my memory. Only
I am being selfish for making you listen to me. And selfish to them,
My Uncle Hecklebey and his wife, my aunt, whose desirable red flesh
Has grown around, thereby covering up, her name, for asking why I
Should let them live. Surely, you agree, they shouldn’t vanish as easily as that.