my aunt lily

masters everywhere and you put your finger on your lip and shush one than the other.

i want to tell you how it is i do not care one way or the other.

you can’t take the rising of the morning nor the setting of the sun to or from any one at all.

my aunt lily went blind at age 9, she took those images with her to the keys on the piano,

to the bones of our faces, to the nap of each fabric.

she knew us like most never would.

hers the softest hands, slow like new love and velvet.

she lived with two men.

her brother, sammy, whose one ear almost touched his shoulder, a bend that i’ve only seen

once before on the skinny man who helped to park the cars at the market.

it almost made me stand up, sit up straighter.

the other man was her sweet husband, my sweet uncle rolly. he held out both hands when he saw one of us coming. every single time.

their house was small and tidy and everything made sense.

it smelled like vanilla and love.

after them i never wanted to go back to church, never wanted to kneel, stand, sit, kneel,

just because i was suppose to.

it's mid-summer, my summer is in bloom...

xo