My Aunts by Alyssa Abell

I would like it when they got together,
 if I had any, I can dream.

They might talk to me with voices that sound

like heavy cream and sweet country peaches.

Ripe, juicy voices coated in silk, chattering.

They might have tattoos, a piercing or two.

They would be classy, and bouncy, and mine.

They would laugh all together and drink wine.

Tell tales of wander lust and treasures found,

late at night, they sit closely, whispering.

They might be that family member,

the one that can never say her goodbyes

without that shimmering glaze over her eyes.

You would get hugged and kissed then hugged some more,

finally making it to the door.

And as they stand out by their cars

talking about where the time has gone,

they hug and kiss and hug again, knowing,

we will all miss them when tomorrow comes.

 As time passes, they'll always remain

beautiful, cheerful, ever the same,

aging, gracefully, you'd swear they hadn't.

You'd visit more, laughing and drinking wine,

making up for years wasted, such young fools.

                                                                       

The Aunts by Joyce Sutphen

I like it when they get together

and talk in voices that sound

like apple trees and grape vines,

and some of them wear hats

and go to Arizona in the winter,

and they all like to play cards.

They will always be the ones

who say “It is time to go now,”

even as we linger at the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they

remember someone—an uncle we

never knew—and sigh, all

of them together, like wind

in the oak trees behind the farm

where they grew up—a place

I remember—especially

the hen house and the soft

clucking that filled the sunlit yard.