An Uncle Poem Poem by Aaron Rudolph

For all my uncles

Tío Míguel was always the cool uncle,
slapping five dollars in my palm
every time he visited, saying, How's my man
doing? I was eight with a Kool-Aid mustache,
grass stained jeans with holes at the knees.
I was no man but I told my mom
I wanted grow up to be Tío Míguel;
talk like him, thick and crusty
through his wooly mustache. He swaggered
around our house, pretending to be shocked
at the islands of toys and clothes
in my room. He taught me a curve ball
and called me the next Fernando Valenzuela. I spit
in my glove like my uncle did, told his jokes
and repeated forbidden words cautiously, sounds
wanting to burst from my mouth like fireworks.
He promised to take me fishing once
but we never went. I could see it:
my uncle and me, knee deep in the Río Bravo,
a concert of fish flying over us,
diving right in our basket.

(from Sacred Things, (Bridge Burner's Press,2002))