NR Digital

Poetry

by Bryce Taylor

With My Parents at Twenty-One

They face the hotel ceiling sky
Like restful fresh sarcophagi.

His snores are gulls that dart and skim
Along her ear’s marina rim.

I used to have the pluck and size
To crawl between their lidded eyes.

To give me life, their young selves died.
My young self stares with scared eyes wide.

Rebellion calls, the zeitgeist frets –
But I will cling to all my debts.

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