Midder…

because at two
I couldn’t say “Aunt Mildred”—
and that was all

she wrote. From
forty-eight to tombstone,
the name stuck

to this second
mama like clean to her kitchen
floors. And

the ho-cakes
she could make!—as thin
and lacy

as doilies. When
she held me, I all but
nursed

the tits
of her babyless breasts,
this woman

who wore
brogans to tomato fields
and carried

a smile
ubiquitous as a lady’s
purse. A

woman I knew
only and ever as old,
her hair

white and wispy
as broomsedge in winter.
The last

time I saw
her, she said, “If I don’t
see you again,

I’ll see you
later”—and with every fiber
of being,

I’m crossing
the Jordan and counting
on that.