After washing all our dinner dishes
my mother’s sister
would bloom herself
through the kitchen door
to decorate our summer porch
with her female presence.
There she’d plant
her plump woman body
like a stack of flowered cushions
at one end of our wicker couch.
Her Evening in Paris perfume
was rudely out-of-place
in our humid Texas night
in a family house where my father
is a husband…or had been
before my mother died.
Once auntie almost fainted
about the beauty of the fireflies
all twinkling in my backyard’s hedge.
Any fool knows they’re just bugs
out lookin’ for a mate.
Then my father said
they should gaze at them up close.
I watched them walking side by side
into the evening’s twilight,
then I ran into my house
and slammed my kitchen door.