For the aunt who only ate sugar packets from Applebee’s, we say
poor Fay,
who didn’t age well.

For the uncle who overdosed on stolen pills, we talk
of good Jerome,
who had too much sorrow.

Of the speeding tickets my father doesn’t pay, he says honey,
out of state
may as well be fable.

About the night my mother spent in jail, we say nothing; once
my grandmother said imagine,
your pantyhose stripped in a hallway.

Of the fumbling years, all the waiting for her to look up again,
I say the rub
of my childhood, the thistle.