She was nothing like my mother,
but was “aunt” to all the kids on the block.
Aunt Rosemary is on my mind
as I stuff the leg of lamb with the needle-like herb
that imparts aromatic pleasure to the meat,
cutting the fat with its bitter tang.
I remember her red hair, the smile she flashed
at Uncle Fred, her second husband
at a time when divorce was frowned upon,
and the night she waded in the fountain.
I spent that summer down south,
the little northerner in pigtails and pedal pushers,
an anomaly among cousins who had grown up
barefoot and tanned, with calamine
dotting mosquito bites pink.
One night, Aunt Rosemary took us girls downtown
to New Orleans, dressed up for a restaurant treat.
Afterwards, having had a few drinks, she led us
to Jackson Square, removed her white high heels,
and stepped delicately into the fountain,
her full skirts swirling, her laughter bubbling
like the bright spray that sequined the torrid night.
We stood open-mouthed, watching
the kind of felicity that clings to my fingers for hours,
the fragrance that seasons a roast of lamb
ready for the oven.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, ParisLitUp, Gradiva, Meniscus, Agenda and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES.