SWWIM sustains and celebrates women poets by connecting creatives across generations and by curating a living archive of contemporary poetry, while solidifying Miami as a nexus for the literary arts.
On a hot Saturday morning Aunt Sugar packs us all up Into her long green 1959 Pontiac July whipping through the windows
Four children squirm in the back seat When Aunt Beulah suddenly shouts She sees Jesus in the light of The passenger seat mirror
We pull up to the tiny Hebron Baptist Church Two Magnolia trees, large and proud Framing a much-used white tent
There’s Aunt Snookie with her Dyed too-black hair Wildly haloing her shoulders Clip-on earrings hanging like purple grapes
Close beside her is Cousin Zippo In his bulging tight pants With a little James Brown swagger He helps us with our picnic basket
In the stale summer heat The preacher gathers us all up For a short walk to Croatan Sound To give us a taste of what is holy
Along the path dripping With hanging grey moss I spot a snake in its sleeve of heat Eye-slits ajar taking a good look
Now, we are all Methodists Used to a little sprinkling And this dunking business is all new But Aunt Beulah insists she needs it
The preacher leads Aunt Beulah to the water She holds her nose and back she goes For the cold immersion New Testament words flung over the water
Aunt Beulah’s skirt bellows like a blow fish Her feet start kicking like she might drown She hovers a little above the earth Even flies a little—a single blurred moment
But by her own strength she pops up Coughing spitting gasping cursing You SOB, that was too long You about drowned me, Aunt Beulah shouts
Aunt Sugar quickly gathers us all up We take off running— Kicking it into high gear Cousin Zippo close to busting his pants Aunt Snooki’s hair bringing up the rear
We snatch up our deviled eggs Corn and still-warm fried chicken Cover it with tinfoil and the Un-reborn Methodists scatter for home
We leave the lemon pound cake That sunny yellow circle Its center missing like a mouth leaking Bless your heart
Tanya Young spent most of her life in North Carolina and is currently retired and writing poetry in Sarasota, Florida. She says, "I do think you have to take what comes to you and write it. Take your heart out for a ride—take your experiences and pack them into a poem offering the magic and mysterious power of storytelling with words that surprise you, move you, heal you."
