The yellow light

When I see—obsolete, forgotten—
a yellow porchlight, I am transported
to muggy Michigan evenings.
My breath is thick with July.

We are playing pinochle.
Every face card is a relative.
Now we are playing Hearts
but I am the Queen of Spades.

Mosquitoes hum over the weedy
lake. An owl groans in the pines.
Moths hurl themselves against
the screens, a dry brown rain.

Yellow makes every card black.
The eyes of my uncles are avid.
They are playing for pennies
and blood.  One shows off

a new Buick, one a new wife.
The women are whispering
about bellies and beds.
It always smells like fried perch.

I am afraid I will never grow up.
I think the owl is calling me
over the black water to hide
in the pines and turn, turn

into something strange and dark
with wings and talons and words
of a more powerful language
than uncles and aunts know,
than uncles and aunts understand.