Carol the babysitter’s voice spread like butter on
roast pheasant. Mmm that woman could bake
anadama bread, mushroom crepes and lentil
zucchini soup and she could gossip—
Yo, sweet as persimmon pudding, that gossip,

sizzling on her tongue, such fun
eating freezer jam with scones or spreading
nut butter on cranberry rolls, she winking,
inching up to the fact that Auntie Oakmar
ordered me away from her wedding.
Rich as she was, Auntie Oakmar wasn’t

going to have any wing-feathered
eyebrow boy, as she called me,
nasty up her wedding day, no crooked keeled creature
eating up the limestone lettuce salad and
riddled shrimp. It was all for her
and her Mynah birds. That’s what Carol
labeled the cousins that oohed and ahhed at

the family gatherings, sucking up to Auntie Oakmar.
Homely as I was in my polio braces
and house coat, Carol was the ointment
numbing every barb and verbal assault

sweeping my way: better than family.
Her brand of blessing, real blessing,
was to give a cross-eyed look, and
effortlessly, place a halo over your shoulders.