The Child Is 18

By March 11, 2023No Comments

I can’t be with-child!  that’s what I told them. I am a child, I’m only 3.

You are 43, they said. Besides, you already have one.

ohh, I said.

I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies

No no!      They said, he is a grown man of 18.

Oh boy
How could I forget

The child is 18,      I’m 43.

At the edge

Of a cliff

Ready to jump      off

Doesn’t it look like his shoulders, I say, broad and tanned, the cliff.

Hanging on I want to hang on on him

I love him, Don’t I!?      A son of Mine    43     I Do

Remember the night you were conceived?

The night when they entered me

Mother was second in line, right after my groom

They entered me one by one

Ravaged every piece        of me

I say to him, we were, weren’t we, happy, the night when you were conceived, oh boy

Me, lying flat, You, just about to happen,       Oh, boyOboy


I said, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?

Granny says then, Yes! no!

Mother says then,  No! yes!

He says,  –he, your father –  Ladies, allow me to handle this.

Looking at you conceived at that split second, Mother says, Yes. He does handle, rather well.

The child is 18

I’m 43

My throat is sore

The child is sweet

I’ve got to fall     down

My mind’s a jumble

Her hands with rough nails

Caressed my insides; Mother is ugly

I am 43

The child is 18

I love him so much

Aren’t his shoulders, Or, the small of his back, astounding!

My child, even though you’re sweet, my throat is sore; don’t you see?

There is a wound up here

There is a wound down here

Scarborough Toronto 2002

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