When is the child born, why does the child die?
Is the child born on its mother’s tears?
Does the child die in her secret smile?
The child rose from its bed of play,
saw the shy world hiding, said, Come here,
I’m a princess and you’re a crocodile.
The world said, Sure, I was bored anyway,
but you be the croc and I’ll be a deer;
let’s rickshaw to China then skate on the Nile .
The two friends wandered that day,
ate rabbit delight and elephant ears,
composed a petunia and put broccoli on trial.
It wasn’t as if their mothers or they
hadn’t heard of textbooks, ethics or years,
but that that diet wasn’t their style.
You possibly haven’t or possibly may
have heard of a place where everything’s weird;
it’s not very far--just none or woo miles.
The world said, Well, it’s time to go away.
I’ve got commitments, I need a beer,
my voicemail’s ringing, which makes me feel virile.
The child lay down on a bed of grey,
saw shadows fighting her electric fears,
dreamt that night of God, gold and guile.
The child is born on the wing of a word.
The child dies when it first denies.
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