Aunt Mary by Roger D’Agostin
Aunt Mary's breasts rest on her thighs like stacked produce.
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Aunt Mary's breasts rest on her thighs like stacked produce.
The sky blue eyes were closed, hiding ninety years of vehemence.
I could string myself together with the twine of nature and poetry.
Our school gradually descended into a subtle chaos no one knew how to handle because the students technically did nothing wrong.
Last night, I died. A driver plowed into my hatchback at 92 mph on the 110 South right outside of downtown Los Angeles.