So, here we are:
you, you’re sitting in your highchair,
looking all smug.
God, you’re so cute
that I could just eat you.
Right. Here comes the aeroplane?
That’s what we’re
going to do.
See? Mummy’s got the food.
Dinner, din dins. Din sure does.
You had existed for a handful of seconds
before you, you alone, put “din” in the dictionary.
Here, a spoonful:
adjectives from the womb of Romantics,
metaphor to sing the cacophony to sleep.
Try swallowing that with your half-tooth,
Don’t spit out the tone when
it touches your tongue.
You’ve already forgotten the
It’s okay. So have I.
I just wish you would eat,
poor, kicking, flailing child of mine,
and not wail at the same
Here comes the airy strain
of your scream,
trapped potential in a soft sack
of pink wobble,
flightless feet holding
the beginnings of babble.