Uncles (Blood)
Talk turns
to who has the sugar
& how much water
you should drink a day,
to conspiracy theories—cornbread
can kill you—
Uncles give advice
not gifts. They forget
your birthday but recall
how short you once were
forever. In your mind
they always loom taller
even years after bumping you
the Bar-Kays from an 8-track—
all bass & bucket seats
in the souped-up black Camaro
parked in the yard
they mean to mow.
Uncles will build half
a house, the frame, the place
the plumbing will go, all
beam & bone,
& never finish the walls
till one day the rain will
rot it all.
Uncles got plans
& they’re big.
Uncles underestimate
everything but food, buy
in bulk then watch it
go bad. Uncles heal
with a touch & can fry
turkeys whole. Uncles smoke
menthols & speak
prophecy. Will lift
you above their head,
bad backs & all—will jerry-rig
a motor to an old-fashioned
lawnmower to slay
the weeds. Will lie
down after, exhausted,
prone on Mama’s couch,
refusing to see
no doctor-dragged in
lucky, Doc’ll say, hours before
shrapnel from some unseen
mowed-over tin
was about to bore
into their huge hearts.
Uncles lie
beautifully. Years later
Uncles won’t much remember—
instead show you their watch
that’s stopped—It’s ghetto,
they’ll laugh, flashing teeth
more gold than their timepiece
that’s a copy
of a copy of a copy—
the battery run down
but still worn, still shiny.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026