This is a dead relative poem.
Michael Santora
I hadn’t been interrupted by a Catholic nun since I was in grade school, and back then it sure as hell wasn’t with a kiss. That morning in the nursing home, I sat by my aunt’s bedside a few hours before she died. I set my phone next to her head and played her favorite song, She’s a Lady. I’ll be damned if Tom Jones’ raw, unbridled sexual dynamism wasn’t really cookin’ through my speakers! But then a few bars in, I felt a velvet brogue above my ear whisper God bless you— sealed with a kiss. Sister Mary Marie, began to spread prayers over us, unfazed by the music. Like any good stubborn Godless heathen I refused this divine intervention. And so there we were. Both smiling and pushing on, unilaterally happy to give Gracie the good lord Jesus and Tom Jones to die by. Off to god knows where. Amen.
Michael Santora
I hadn’t been interrupted by a Catholic nun since I was in grade school, and back then it sure as hell wasn’t with a kiss. That morning in the nursing home, I sat by my aunt’s bedside a few hours before she died. I set my phone next to her head and played her favorite song, She’s a Lady. I’ll be damned if Tom Jones’ raw, unbridled sexual dynamism wasn’t really cookin’ through my speakers! But then a few bars in, I felt a velvet brogue above my ear whisper God bless you— sealed with a kiss. Sister Mary Marie, began to spread prayers over us, unfazed by the music. Like any good stubborn Godless heathen I refused this divine intervention. And so there we were. Both smiling and pushing on, unilaterally happy to give Gracie the good lord Jesus and Tom Jones to die by. Off to god knows where. Amen.