They never grow up

They never grow up.

And if they do, it's not by their own choice,
but by the choice ones who claim ownership
of the weaklings--the kicking, screaming, hatched fetuses
that have no say in the matter.

And if they did, they would choose to never age,
if only to spare themselves the pain
of perpetuating the process known as parenthood
and playing protagonist roles
while flying selfish colours of pride.

Misinfants of miscreants, why do you continue on?
Why not stop while you're ahead, fine-tune your present song?

Their weakness is their strength,
for in it they cannot grip
the weight of one small infant
struggling to bite its lip
amongst other things, of course,
like bullets and peppermints
and pieces of broken heirlooms
and family fingerprints
that are nowhere to be found

They cry now over the the most minuscule things!
Here, it's only hungry. The pacifier'll tide it over
'til morning.

'Til morning,
a storm rages
and threatens the hollow inside
so easily breakable
by the ravaging blizzard
that intensifies
and then

peace, met by a cold, pale hush.
The storm has settled, and all that remains
is an impeccably spread blanket of snow
covering its territory serenely
yielding such fruits as only winter can bring--

Grandma, look here!

Poor little thing, guess it was just too weak.
Here, fetch your Grandpa and a spade.
And open the window while you're at it,
it's gettin' mighty warm in here.

Poor little thing. Guess it'll never grow up.

She never grew up.

Andrew Vlasblom