My Aunts
By ERIKA BEAVER
I don’t like it when they get together
And talk in voices that sound
Like lemon trees and thorn bushes.
And some of them wear boots,
And go to Florida in the winter,
And they all like to play poker.
They will always be the ones
Who say “we must be going now”
As they quickly make their way toward the door,
Or make a dash to the waiting cars, they
Remember someone, an uncle we
Never liked—and sigh, all
Of them together, like wind
In the corn fields behind the farm
Where they grew up—a place
I remember—especially
The pig house and the soft
Grunts that filled the overshadowed yard.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment