Relativities

by Amy Soricelli

My uncle's hair is thick with summer -
its shadowy slivers of striking blonde fall like they used to ...
she says to me -
over his eyes like he's hiding it all behind the lashes - like he can sweep away anything
and bury it deep under sight like a snow globe.
My aunt's eyes are filled with glass doors from across the hall; she watches like a lighthouse -
her ears pressed to the back door stories of other people she eats like grapes;
plucking and popping into her mouth.
They carry their collective shadows in side drawers- hers on the right side of the bed his on the left,
and in a messy pile by the front door fluttering in the air with dusty speckles; his stomping foot,
his eager left-over everything.
My uncle's fist is tight with lines drawn like a road map from one end to the other.
He holds out the slow rope she grabs; i watch them walk along the lines on the floor single file
like a cop testing for wine.
He patches the walls with clouds, with air; punches holes in the ceiling to let in some light.
My aunt's hands carry the spread wings of too many days in the wait and see -
she drags her laundry spread thin with silky cloth like whispers
that slip easily from the side of her throat.
They reach for the same shadow in the dead of night;
the same passing dark across the face.
It is not the same what they see -
but they see it both the same.