Deployed at the darkened door,
She begins her march.
Blocking the rays from the nightlight,
She stands, takes recon.
She wonders which side to attack.
Biological agents precede her.
Her ancient nose immune
to the gases she cakes on.
Lying in bed,
I remember fallen cousins,
mid-campaign against ninjas and dragons,
shot down by the ratcheting fire from her lips
and the corrosive smear of her lipstick on their cheeks.
She takes a seat
at the end of the bed,
pondering some story she wants to hear.
I cower in my bunker of pretend sleep.
Waiting for the threat to pass.
Finally, she withdraws.
Aunt Gladys sighs and leaves the room.