Poem By MARINA GIPPS
My baby, newborn, knew so much arithmetic,
knew the theorems of Xeno before it calculated
its first step. Knew all the letters of five alphabets
consecutively and backwards, knew so much it was
competing with twelve year olds to reach the gilded podium
of the venus fly-trap orators. Although it could speak brillantly,
it could never walk upright. I questioned the headmaster
of a famous school where children were taught to identify
their bones, asked how my baby was doing. 'Splendidly',
he replied, 'it has earned a Q, U, and R on its varsity sweater.'
I asked how it was walking. 'It is not walking. It is crawling
over the hills of a field, examining every vein of every fallen leaf.
It is being spoonfed mashed pomegranates.'