A three-ton baby learned to make
her own bottle before trampling
downtown and its flashing lights,
people who are celebrating birthdays
on the exact day the rampage begins.
She was at least well fed, not angry
but curious how cars would overturn,
the noise their inhabitants made when
they were squished between her toes.
Eventually this child would learn how
to shrink, to possess her classrooms
with laughter and bits of song. Grades
would stain her reports, badges
mark her Girl Scout uniform, boys
would throw bugs at her then kisses.
Nothing would be like it once was
when even the clouds came down
to her head, and the delicious billboards
crunched in her mouth. Those days
would return to her in dreams, appear
in reveries at school, when the teacher
flung a question she couldn't answer
at her self-esteem, and she heard a gurgle
then a stomp of her foot, a grape's
busted pulp bursting out of its skin,
the imagined body spattering juice.
Author Discusses Poems