Raising a Poem-Baby

by Evie Collins

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 one?

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,
that pathetic,
milky brine.

Don’t spit out the tone when
it touches your tongue.

You’ve already forgotten the
aeroplane thing?
It’s okay. So have I.

I just wish you would eat,
poor, kicking, flailing child of mine,
and not wail at the same

three notes.
Here comes the airy strain
of your scream,
trapped potential in a soft sack
of pink wobble,

flightless feet holding
the beginnings of babble.