Aunt Peach Poem by Brent Kincaid

AUNT PEACH

She wasn’t really our aunt
But she had been Daddy’s friend
For time on end, and you can’t
Put paid to that kind of kinship
When time slips away and
She still stands in for family
Handily around for celebration
For confirmations and weddings
Letting us all come visit her
Together at her table kids itching
For reaching and looking and touching
All the delightful trinkets she owned
Living alone with her husband
Their son having sent the pretties
From overseas; rickshaws and things,
Buddha statues and parasols
Meant to recall duty spend in Asia,
Malaysia and Vietnam, sending Mama
Wonderful carvings and toys
Made by local boys for sale
So these soldiers and sailors could
Send this arty wood back home
To chronicle where they roamed
And to tell Mama how her love
Fits them like a glove that warms
And protects them from harm
Like Mama holding them in her arms.
All these artifacts, were too much in fact
For four boys to ignore on the floor
And on every counter and mantle.
Small hands will find them and touch
Amid much shouting by our Mom
“There ain’t nothin’ they can harm, ”
Aunt Peach told her, 'don’t bother.'
“You don’t know our kids, ” she said.
“They could tear up an iron monkey
With a beer bottle key.” Mom scowled.
And, we howled because we were sent
To play outside; the front door a fence
To keep us away from play
Inside, locking precious things away.
Because Mom knew, and it was true,
In no time those fascinating things
Would be flies with wings pulled off,
Armless and legless animals
That nothing could call back whole.
So, we played in her empty farmyard
Discarding as lost any hope to return
Because Mom had learned
We could not be trusted
To leave things unbusted
Even delicate stuff
Would be treated rough,
Anything within reach
Even the amazing clamor
Of Aunt Peach’s parlor
Full of untouchable collectibles.

Brent Kincaid
1/19/2014