phillies reruns

in the winter, the aunts played
the games over & over again. their little television boys
with red caps. the crowd cheering.
glinting housefly teeth. 
they gathered as if the game were happening
for the first time & not the tenth or sometimes
the hundredth. i imagine a room
of thousands of bodies repeating bat swings 
& pitches. there was a time when they would 
be part of the stadium swarm. 
the couches have become animals.
back worn from where mary & flo sit.
we drink diet cokes. focus on each movement.
our diorama. the boys sometimes escape
from the screen. dust the corners of the old family house.
communion photos & jersey beach vacations. 
angel figurines. in our family, everyone is 
a baseball player. even my great aunts.
even me as i sit eating stale crackers & listening
to the static roar of the crowd. a world series
is always happening. someone is glorious.
someone is resting a bat on their shoulder.
how many times can the haunting return?
after a game ends, i am now the one
who goes to wrangle the boys. there are always
one or two who do not return to screen.
i find them in aunt mary's drawer of money
& sometimes in the shed playing with
the broken lawn dart set.  television comes to life
in the morning & sometimes in the sugary
wine-grape night. a two-way portal.
i know this game well. i go to play
find the aunts there too. old as they are now. 
their recliners in the field. sun falling 
in veils around us.