The Unsocial Aunts by Kathleen Fellows

The Unsocial Aunts by Kathleen Fellows

I hate how they will not get together

And talk in any voice to each other

That sounds like anything but stagnant trees

None of them wear similar clothing or

Take vacations outside of the east coast

And none of them like to do the same things

They will always be the ones who don’t speak

Unless on the phone through my grandmother

Even we want to see them together

Or even speak waited apologies

They are stuck on their horrible father

We never knew and they keep to themselves

All of them alone like the same species

Of trees planted in adjacent corners

Where they had no choice but to keep apart

I remember seeing them side by side

But not all at once and not so joyful

Making fun of each other’s life and kids

Making sure everyone felt lesser

The days are missed when they even spoke

Something has to be better than nothing

Now I am older and see families

Few get along but almost all will talk

My family grows worthless as days go

The point of procreating weakens vastly

As the women as the men as the kids

Act as their elders and cannot converse

The visits have long halted and voices

Have been forgotten with silence in place

Optimism becomes hard to come by

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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.