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I didn’t know your newborn ear
would be so soft. It won’t again
until you’re old
and I am gone.

I bend the flap, a silken basket
catching our paper airplanes of affection
and crumpled, frustrated drafts.
Your parents are learning

as you will learn, and when your ear
goes soft again, maybe a little boy
will bend it, whispering
through time to me:
Pop, Pop, Pop.



Bryce A. Taylor writes from Spring, Texas. His fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Image, America, Literary Orphans, Dappled Things, Aurorean, Lydwine Journal, and Macrina Magazine. You can find him on Twitter at @mrbrycetaylor.
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