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By Mark Bennion

                        Not even a score of years ago,
you pulled on my pant legs, begging
me to sing one more off-kilter
Rodgers and Hart tune before turning off
the lights. “My Funny Valentine” flew
all over the room as if I’d just finished
your favorite show. Now the tables

spin in the other direction. Now I think
you can sing me into the first stage
of slumber or bounce on the edge
of my bed, disclosing tales of talking horses
and cows full of redemption and wo.
When you were little I could count
on Larry Levis, whispering,
I wanted to explain this life to you,
even if I had to become . . . someone else to do it.

Now I’ve become my parents and you’re turn-
ing into Mom and me, all of us stepping
in front of the curtain
onto the apron of the next production.
The director knows what we are
yet still nudges us to move upstage,
to reveal more than we plan to be.

In addition to writing poetry, Mark D. Bennion enjoys traipsing through Yellowstone, cheering for the Milwaukee Brewers, and fine-tuning his tennis skills. Resource Publications recently published his collection Beneath the Falls: poems. For the past two decades, Mark has taught composition and literature classes at BYU-Idaho.


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