When They Are Near By Kayla Hall

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.

                                                                                        

When They Are Near

 By Kayla Hall

They don’t sound like apple trees or grape vines

they are not that quiet when they gather;

waves crashing into each other that's them.

Their voices carry off to the distance

so even those who are involved in their

own personal lives can hear the words preached.

I remember blaming my genetics

for being obnoxiously boisterous

as if my aunts dictate my vocal chords.

Some of them adore the blistering sun

and stretch beneath it like a sleeping cat,

and they all like to watch their children play.

There will always be the ones that greets us

at the door and take our coats, then there are

the ones that greet us by a muffled yell

though a thick door telling us it's open.

They are the ones that always arrive late

no matter  how late in the day it is.

They light up the sky out shining the sun,

you can feel and see their warmth and kindness.

Even when the day is done and they leave

I find sand placed in my clothing and hair

and the sand gets washed away a clean slate,

but I still find that sand even right now.

I guess that's the whole point though, of the sand

whether you want it or not it is yours.

Even if I never went to the beach

I would find that sand placed in my clothing.

It's nearly impossible to avoid

but why would you want to be without it.