Father, when, when, when will you lift me,
dirty baby, from my crib?
With pail and shovel, I dig, dig for you,
scratching the earth like a hen.
When I pull her cord, my mermaid doll,
with flaxen hair, says strange things—
“Sooner dead than changed!”
Could she be speaking of you, Father?
Well, if that’s what Mermaid believes,
Mermaid cannot come to tea.
Or the others, Father, piled like puppies
at my feet: nursing shark, green toad
with red tongue, rubber goldfish—
who come to parties I set for them
with Mother’s blue Fiestaware,
singing Hawaiian songs, eating shortbread.
“Dirty Baby, Dirty Baby,” you say to me
when I nuzzle my wet face against your neck.
Dirty Baby loves the taste of flesh.
Dirty Baby needs you to cut his meat.
Dirty Baby needs you to teach him how to chew.
Apostasy
Henri ColeEditors’ Note: The Yale Review is committed to publishing pieces from its archive as they originally appeared, without alterations to spelling, content, or style. Occasionally, errors creep in due to the digitization process; we work to correct these errors as we find them. You can email [email protected] with any you find.
Henri Cole is the author of Blizzard and Touch, as well as the memoir Orphic Paris.
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