Aunt June

A poor old dingbat lady of the church
who came to visit mom, when I was young:
her teeth on the nightstand Polident perch
tumbler dunked in brief freedom from the tongue.
 
Last I heard a stroke claimed her, flesh and ghost,
and that she had fallen into a ditch.
 
But memories are an echo necrosed
like her white cotton bookmark tatting stitch
verse and chapter worn and bond leather bare
on the bible next to those burbling teeth.
 
But I did not know it; not then; not there;
or long after her casket was beneath  
the ashes to ashes and dust to dust:
 
that her faith in Christ was a one way trust.