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Poetry | November 2019

Putting a Crying Baby to Sleep

By January Pearson

Like blowing out a trick birthday candle.
Like turning non-fat milk into butter.

It’s like taking a Zumba class with Richard Simmons after a second cup of coffee.
It’s like shushing a marching band in the library.

You are water spraying from a hose
and I am the drenched gardener fumbling for the spigot.
You are the vacuum cleaner tube
and I am the sock suctioned at its mouth.
I am the cigarette
and you’ve got the shakes.

It takes so long
two new pronouns are invented
an oak tree grows another ring
the Senate passes a bill.

When you doze off
you’re a dew-drop on a spire of grass
an overblown balloon brushing a needle.

When your breathing finally deepens in the dark morning
I’m flat sourdough
a limp broken stem
a frayed violin string

and you’re a loaf of sweet bread
fuzz on a dandelion
a small harp tucked in its soft bed.

1 reply on “Putting a Crying Baby to Sleep”

Viv Ringsays:
December 10, 2019 at 4:23 am

You’ve got it, captured perfectly!

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