Ode to Aspic

Every Christmas, grandma Mary prepared 
     an aspic for our family dinner—green jello 
glinting in the light, red and yellow peppers 
     floating in the goop, like fireworks suspended in space.
Everyone in my family would have rather 
      swallowed the terracotta-colored napkin folded on their laps
than spoon that toxic spill of Friday-night 
     leftovers onto their plates, but we all shoveled 
that algae-colored jello into our mouths. 
    How else could we repay the wrinkle 
heavy woman who gifted aunt Suzy the minivan
     she bought the year before when Suzy’s sedan
sputtered its final breath on the highway; 
     who swooped in when uncle Jack found
himself divorced, a bundle of baby wailing 
     in his crib, and took care of his kid as he mopped
floors at the local highschool he worked at? 
     We couldn’t offer her our scribbled checks, 
and only in her final few years did she molt 
     the exoskeleton of her pride and begin 
to ask us for favors. So we did what we knew 
     pleased her most: we stabbed our forks 
into the rank green mess and devoured the dish
     with a grin, like treasure hunters stuffing
mounds of emeralds directly into their pouches.