drain

the summer i lived with the aunts
none of their drains worked.
we did not talk about the loud things
& instead we all had our own little conversations
with the ghost of aunt joan who died
just the year before. she refused
to hover. she was never a formal person
& she hated all expectations of being a ghost.
she liked to laugh & sometimes she switched
the television away from the phillies game
just to upset aunt flo. i got familiar
with a bucket. ferried bath water to
the overgrown yard where the pear tree
bore fruit for the last time. when we got lazy
the house would flood. each room 
a fish tank. i played the old electric organ
while holding my breath & aunt mary's
newspapers bleed until they were just 
blank paper. i always tried to get up before them
but it was hard because aunt flo sometimes
slept in the living room to avoid aunt joan.
i didn't blame her. we are not all ready
for the dead to come back. once & only once
i reached into the drain. i had had enough.
i just wanted to wash my face
without the world collecting in a murky pool.
i felt hair. not clumps like your typical 
nasty drain. instead, it was long & flowing hair.
dark & rich. the hair my aunts had 
when they were young. i pulled back,
terrified of discovering their whole selves
attached & alive. i come from a family
of questionable acceptance. a bucket by the door
still dripping from my aunt's bath. 
the smell of their soft rose soap. aunt joan
knocking the landline of the receiver again
as if to say, "why don't you talk to me?"
i stood in the yard, eating a pear & letting
the juice drip down my chin.