PABLUM Sophia Kraemer-Dahlin
We´ve got some babies.
They´ve got an eensy weensy widdle:
weenzy fat lil teensy widdle.
And a mother, an all-forgiving,
gathering mother, who spunnum up from the lawn
and plunktum onto the counter.
She’s got a starstruck spouse.
Mine, bedridden since birth.
I have a bedridden spouse.
I feedum rice soup to die for.
How to be a good mother, a brave daughter,
an everflowing spouse,
has rather escaped us.
I cook at every possible occasion.
My lover is so young, I have to pay her an allowance.
She wears too much pink. Her hair is very fine.
She tongues raisins to dry against my skin.
How to be a good John? "Did you wither those grapes
yourself, with your blistering mouth?"
In my opinion it is pointless to be a victim
or a refugee and not collapse, gustily, into the arms of strangers and depend,
utterly, on the clemency of new neighbours.
For these reasons when I left everything I distanced myself
pennilessly. –.The stupid thing about clemency is
Did I leave it alone or did I take with me
my eensy beansy boinzi,
my fat woopsy
shnoopsy. My wet waddler.
I ran away from house and spouse, kidnapping my toddler.
Oh who´ll forgive us now!
None. Even my mother believes in not
kidnapping a fat wopsy.
It´s naptime in the parks
and truck stops of this country.