← v7n1, Spring 2008
Poetry · Volume 7, Number 1

When to Stop

Never knew when to stop, my Aunt, Estelle.

A girl, called to recite

(a thing she did quite well)

she waxed so eloquent,

went on so long,

her Papa growled, “Oh, let up, Stell!”

Kept up, past forty,

singing lessons with Miss Gottschalk;

at seventy-five still clings

to artless, low-cut blouse,

lipsticks the retrograding mouth.

I’ve seen her (in-laws

envying her prelude seafood stems,

half-scornful of her postlude fingerbowls)

presiding at her table,

erect and smiling, answering

her husband’s snarl

with a quick nimble joke

that gave us all escape.

Now he has nothing more

to say to her, to tired-out us,

or to the world,

when he just leans his forehead

hard upon his hand, and

nully forks and chews.

A living silence, she, erect and smiling,

giving his sleeve a quick caress,

eyes like a cherubim’s,

chats on voraciously for two.