The Feral Baby
In the dark
before breakfast I dreamed
that the baby fell on its head. It wasn't
my fault. It just climbed up my shoulder
and jumped. I only borrowed it
because you made me. It wasn't mine.
I am not one for babies.
Nevertheless,
it cried, so I put it in my purse
for the gypsy. She offered to give it a casserole.
(Or was that use it in a casserole?) I said,
"It doesn't like my purse, but it wouldn't like a
casserole any better." I'm not one for babies,
but I know that much.
Finally
I took it back to you
at the urban university lab. You put
a ribbon on it, called it Jean, kissed it.
It was fine then. I was tempted to
sneak it back to its mother, but
you'd turned her into a starling.
And that's how
she came to be my child.
I'm not one for babies
until they learn how
to fly.
January 2022
posted for
Note: No babies were harmed in the production of this poem.
Images: Creeping baby doll, 1871 Public Domain
Starling Murmuration © Menno Shaefer Fair Use
