In Cases Such As These, a Good Memory Is Unpardonable

Gloria scootches closer to the television to hear Colin Firth,
("He's so handsome,")
For the umpteenth time pronouncing Elizabeth tolerable
But not handsome enough to tempt him.

They tell me she may have to be put away soon.
Put away, like clean dishes into cabinets
Or put away like old toys into the attic?
She can't see anymore,
So she listens to salacious books on tape,
And every week awaits the snarky denunciation
Of the petticoats, six inches deep in mud
("That awful woman, she'll get hers!")

Gloria, in excelsis, must secretly be seething
Because her son and daughter-in-law
Have to clean her up now almost every night.
It is not just.
She was a woman, a Sicilian matriarch,
But now must assent to other people's hands
On her private parts, and cannot be allowed
Her indignity because it reads as ingratitude.

Gloria says a rosary.
She hums something Sinatra sang.
She says only that her bones hurt
And asks again for Colin Firth.
("Oh yes, he's proud. But just you wait.")