A Familial Condition

Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts ripped from black and white movies. Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun. One of her hands will not touch her, the other has been carried off by wolfish priests. The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar; she floats now between worlds. Uncle Sean, the satyric commis-waiter, looming above a meaty cleavage, flambéed Steak Diane with a sapid leer, poured cognac and butter, commingled shallots at the table. Then after the hunt, he’d triumphantly decant into whomever. Cousin Tommy died early, but not before he had burnt through the Old Testament. A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards, left him lacking normal human kapok, kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound blew out his brains. There are cousins removed and living who disassemble themselves, with zealotry or ennui. None took the middle way, none quietly settled-in to live among damp-stained regrets. Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible. They reside in the far reaches, until dark angels flame out in their berserker eyes.