An afternoon with Kevin Young’s “Aunties” sounds awfully good right now. The poem, from his collection Dear Darkness, appears most recently in Blue Laws, a selected and uncollected gathering that is an essential tour of Young’s work.
Aunties
There’s a way a woman will not relinquish
her pocketbook even pulled onstage, or called up
to the pulpit— there’s a way only your Auntie can make it
taste right— rice & gravy is a meal
if my late Great Aunt Toota makes it— Aunts cook like
there’s no tomorrow & they’re right. Too hot
is how my Aunt Tuddie peppers everything, her name given
by my father, four, seeing her smiling in her crib. There’s a barrel
full of rainwater beside the house that my infant father will fall
into, trying to see himself—the bottom— & there’s his sister
Margie yanking him out by his hair grown long as superstition. Never mind
the flyswatter they chase you round the house & into the yard with
ready to whup the daylights out of you— that’s only a threat—
Aunties will fix you potato salad & save
you some. Godmothers, godsends, Aunts smoke like
it’s going out of style— & it is— make even gold
teeth look right, shining, saying I’ll be John, with a sigh. Make way
out of no way— keep the key to the scale that weighed
the cotton, the cane we raised more than our share of—
If not them, then who will win heaven? holding tight
to their pocketbooks at the pearly gates just in case.