They exchanged kisses like the years never intervened:A quartet of old hags, except for their reflected seasons
Of grace they ended up chattering about. Remember?
The nun’s child ended up to be a cousin, and more hijadaComing from concubines of their fathers dutifully ignored
By their genteel mothers. They were all here, laughing
Furtively about how a cousin-librarian literally died of fright
When caught in frenzied embrace with a town alderman
Who promptly perished, too, with a fractured heart, unable
To disentangle himself from the muscle-clamping guardian
Of the shelves whose most intimate loins closed tightly
On him like a book, they had to be buried like bookends.
Family secrets grow on trees here, roots and branchesRampantly bearing the haves and have-nots. Remember?
---Albert B. Casuga