September 21, 2010

"Banana": A poem by Alison Pick

Banana

Call him honey, call him
love, anything sending out
the high clear light

          that is yellow.
                    Sunshine. So close

to white, the purest
of snow, granular
sand he toddles over, bucket
in hand.
          Sugar. Come back
from the edge, my darling,
          my dear,

and he does, brandishing mud
like a flower,
stacking your name like a tenuous
tower of blocks:
ma ma ma MA.

Call this true love.

Even on the longest of cloistered
afternoons when he reigns
in his highchair (call him
The King), the tin cup
          dumped back onto the floor, banana
pushed back through his teeth
as though through a sieve;
          in your mouth
the names clatter–
          Sweet Pea, Sweet Cake–
like the rattle he shakes in his fist.
As though he desires
to be nothing
but the clear yellow light

he knows himself to be. Buttercup,
          Angel,
call him what he is:

your Baby. Your Baby. Your Baby.

(from the collection Question & Answer: Poems, by Alison Pick).