collector of endings.

when we visit aunt flo
her television is always praying.
genuflecting too. a face full of holographic 
smiling people. moving pictures of rooms that look
warmer than any of ours. 
she tells me, "all the hallmark movies
end with a kiss." the television is 
trying to kiss me so i hide 
in the closet. find the clothes 
of aunt mary & aunt joan, both 
long since turned into soft pears 
in the hands of the tree. they return
over & other to leave their guts on the lawn.
sweet & pale. no one comes to eat
the pears anymore so they just keep
returning. wings in the basement
going wild. aunt flo follows the television.
she cannot take her eyes off of it
or she might miss another ending.
she is the family's collector of endings.
i lived with her once
for the summer. aunt joan had just died
& her ghost was heavy.
i slept in her old room that smelled
like hands. aunt flo said
over & over, "i'm never going to die."
i believed her then & i believe her still.
the television would
wake me up in the morning.
i sometimes didn't mind. it just
had people it wanted to show me.
i know it is a delicate balance. you must
always return to the glow. you must not
ever confess, "i think i have seen this before."
one night i found her weeping
in the dark bathroom. the television
was dark & laying on its side.
she had spent all the stories that day.
nothing more to say, just the silence
of the streetlamps spilling 
across the pink tile floor.