From the archives — June Twenty-First by Bruce Guernsey

June Twenty-First

My mother’s cigarette flares and fades,
the steady pulse of a firefly,
on the patio under the chestnut.

The next door neighbors are over.
My father, still slender, is telling a joke:
laughter jiggles in everyone’s drinks.

On his hour’s reprieve from sleep,
my little brother dances
in the sprinkler’s circle of water.

At fourteen, I’m too old
to run naked with my brother,
too young to laugh with my father.

I stand there with my hands in my pockets.
The sun refuses to set,
bright as a penny in a loafer.

by Bruce Guernsey

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 22, 2016


One response to “From the archives — June Twenty-First by Bruce Guernsey”

  1. Joanne Durham Avatar

    I love this poem. I love how it says so much while saying so little. I love how it’s framed by the longest day of the year, just how long 14 seems to a 14 year old. Thanks!

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