Wynne
In the small car my aunt drove,
her midlife accomplishment,
there would come to our house
with her withered friend
Mrs Wright (painful to behold
with her fox-fur over shoulders
lopsided, her twisted stick),
Mrs Wright’s daughter,
a woman like a rare
draped statue, the outline
of her breasts level
with my pubertal eye.
Wynne. She had little to say,
nothing memorable,
in a subdued voice;
smiled - never laughed.
Why did people defer to her,
praise her auburn hair? -
yes, it was - unusual.
Hair soon fades from gold to dull.
(I was once little Snowy -
now I was lanky Mouse,
a boy invisible to her
in this quiet house).
The middle-aged were on her case.
Poor Wynne - if she doesn’t
marry soon…! she’s no life -
the shoe shop; poor Mrs R. -
sinking to a whisper -
adopted her, you know! -
insurance against neglect
in her old age. She sat well,
she stood well on heels
higher than the others’; dressed
better than the middle-aged ladies.
Aunt drove them home -
somewhere pokey where
visitors weren’t invited.
Miss Wright never met her
Mr Right. Those breasts
found no takers. At length alone,
mightn’t Wynne, single woman,
have felt in her breast a pang?
looked into adoption?
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