Thursday, April 21, 2011

Picky eater

Writing a daily poem feels like doing a parachute jump daily. I don't have time to craft these, so they're coming out raw and possibly ridiculous. Something about that is probably good for one's constitution. At the same time, I'm having the most vivid and rich dreams, perhaps informed by the process of poetic writing so regularly.

I offered a poem to boyf the other day, saying 'it's about mother love'. 'Your poems are all about motherlove,' he said. So, apologies if I'm exhausting the theme but it's obviously quite an overwhelming experience and pervades the poetry part of my brain at the moment! Here's another baby related poem:



Picky eater

 
Once you’ve become
a breeder, you’ll find yourself
also a feeder.
at least - erstwhile

The boy lives on fresh air
and peekaboo, a wind-up
kid running on empty,
one hundred rpm - meanwhile

I make him custard
as smooth as his the plump
silky skin of his inner arm,
eggsoft and velveteen

and ignored. He dashes
from mewl to shriek
and back again, I think
vegetables - carotene

might fill him, ply
him with a plate painted
with strawberry juice,
a veritable masterpiece

of decorative edibles.
He agrees, uses it to prettify
the walls. I offer
a bottle of champagne

spiked with helium, which
goes down well, or
up, oops.
At last, surrender.

I feed him
attention, wrigglehugs, fart
noises, tongue-biting, sugar voice,
sleep hours, my genetic coding, protection,
resentment, worry, pink liquid paracetamol, the rest of my life and
anything else he might ask for.

2 comments:

Dorla Moorehouse said...

Love the part about spiking the champagne with helium!

Shanna Germain said...

Yes! Love it all!