The Aunts
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.
"The Aunts" Imitation, by Donovan Acuna
When they get together it should be more pleasant
Yet whenever I am around them I learn an ill-truth: never
let your secrets go.
Like the whispering petals of dandelions flying around with
the wind
are the things in their minds I know they shouldn’t know.
They wear whatever is comfy, rarely dress to the occasion.
If self-esteem could be taught it might be from them.
Too bad they can’t teach simple things, like games and such.
Unless you count their tricks as games, then perhaps you
could learn something.
They will always be the ones, who say the same things – just
in different ways.
One “says never speak out of turn,” another says “don’t
answer unless you’ve been asked.”
Their speeches linger in your ear because they know what you
shouldn’t hear.
Or perhaps on occasion it is something all too real, they
tell you truths you never knew.
No matter what, they’ll have an answer or an opinion for
everything.
No argument, kind-gesture, or resolution is worth the breath
since they’re the ones who apparently make and grade all
tests.
Again the wind carries to them secrets, information which
they hold ever so dear.
These little facts and details just give them entertainment,
power and cause,
to do what they want when you’ve upset them the most.
No worries enter my mind, since I’m used to their ways.
When they get together it is not always so bad.
Time after time they need to put on fronts, ones that make
you feel more normal,
company arrives, dinner is made, and jokes are shared.
But once the guests depart, the aunts go back to their
ancient ways,
swarming to anything that doesn’t concern them, to satisfy
their need for power and to complement their urge to act like hens do.
Family or not they’ve got it in their heads that life is a
coupe.
They will never let me forget that, this I can assure.
They live life on their terms and never anyone else’s,
theirs aren’t endearing, nor are they proper;
I can assure you they’re educational as a display of what
not to do.
When my aunts get together only one has that name while the
other two,
were once considered mothers to me, but now their job is
through.
I was birthed by a woman who became an aunt, and raised by
one who was born one.
No matter the titles, or their presence in my life when they
get together it is solitude I desire.
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