No Excuse, It’s All Excuse

POETRY

by Susan Johnson

If you were driving through, there was no excuse;
you had to stop & see aunt of the bloodshot cheeks
& assessing eyes, exclaiming over tea too strong
& whiskey too weak: we never see you, why don’t
we see you, until uncle raps his knuckles against

the table signaling it’s time for auction 45, a game
you can’t follow but follow just the same to keep
the conversation going, while aunt sits facing
the street, refusing to join because of something
to do with Jesus: cards perilous as the devil & then

everyone offered pie, no demanded take this & eat
& scolded if you said: no thank you, but thank you.
Oh you don’t like it? Here’s molasses cake instead.
I bake one a week, take it with you. Aunt always in
a dress & stockings, pancake makeup, thick powdered

grooves & generous to a fault & stingy to a fault
when it came to people with differing points of view
& easily insulted when you say it’s time to go, a long
stretch of road ahead: What? Aren’t you staying for
dinner, breakfast, lunch, not leaving like their one

daughter who deserted as soon as she could, fleeing
this city of reversing falls, the stench keeping everyone
inside under surveillance on couches embossed like coffins,
so lying back you feel your life could end right there
if you dozed off even a second, that there was no escape.