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by Madelyn Taylor

When I was young enough to know everything–and know
being grown was sleeping in nothing but sheets
and other people–I shivered into bed
next to my sister, giggled guilty against
her chicken-bump legs, bare belly, bruise
on bruise, read books, and grew too warm.
                                                                               And Mom called out to me, “Where are you?”
Tonight I shiver seven layers deep–and know
nothing–have grown big enough to bruise
other people, bump guilty into bed,
read a book, twist restless, nesting loops
‘till the ground seems better roost. My sister
is in Croatia. I sleep upon my belly.


Madelyn Taylor is an English major at Brigham Young University. She grew up
in an Air Force family and moved around most of her life. Her interests
include the history of oral poetry in the United States, radio
broadcasting, and terrible adaptations of Sherlock Holmes.