The Double Bed

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Side by side
ruled down the middle
my parents lie
two little fishes
joined in fish-shaped dishes.

I make waves
jumping in with them.
Sometimes the door’s clammed shut
the key fiddled in the lock.

Later, the beds divide
shoaling across
to different sides.
Morning light glints
on both their faces
as I wade between
comparing eyelid tightness.

Uncharted, a large tide
like silver blood
finally washes my mother
down the hall’s channel
to the guest room bed
sand dune walls, the trim shell pink
leaving Dad high and dry
in the brown flood wrack
of post-heart-attack.

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