The family sedan purrs down the long lane that traces
a creek bed sprinkled with plum and cedar until it eases through
a pass in the clay banks and settles in the cozy farmstead of
Aunt Ruth and Uncle Glen:
neat, two-story house with garden, a big white barn, corrals
nestled in a valley like a little village.
I slip through the steamy kitchen,
where the women wrestle the bird
and lay out the Jell-O salads for dessert,
to the shadowy living room.
Men are talking prices and sports in halting mumbles.
And there, in a corner in the good chair, she sits:
angular jaw, crepe-skinned, permed white hair,
She smiles her three-toothed grin
and extends her bony blue arms.
I take my place beside her.
Her large mountain lake painting
seems to cover the wall opposite, above the TV.
Her voice is soft, with a lot of tongue slipping between her lips.
Her dark, bright eyes, mirrored in all three daughters,
glisten as I ask and listen.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish