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The Kids | jen hadfield
Born too soon,
Monday’s child was not ready to be seen;
is destined to be early for ever.
She has a slice of red pepper
shaped
like a question mark.
*
The volcanic breath of Tuesday’s child!
He remembers where poetry comes from;
the literal potential of things,
which means he can’t eat broccoli —
seeing it right, a tiny indigestible oak.
He eats grated cheese with a teaspoon,
assisting it with a finger.
*
The hidden’s the vocation of bird-like Wednesday’s child,
perfecting her dustbaths with sweeping boughs of pine.
She can find anything hidden in the dark,
as a cat finds a rabbit —
by the steam escaping
the warren.
*
Thursday’s child says he saw Wednesday’s child
run so fast she began to fly.
Thursday’s child shall be called a liar.
*
Friday is afraid of the suit of spades
and jigsaw pieces the shape of the suit of spades.
She’s afraid of plug-sockets, pylons,
dams, flowered wallpaper.
She knows what magic is —
the stress we’re under.
*
Saturday’s child is still growing into her eyes,
lamps above her chin, a frog’s eyes
surfacing the muds of winter.
She can’t help what she does and doesn’t see —
salting away what she sees
inside her.
*
Sunday’s child knows what blasphemy is
and where the devil’s grave.
He makes the lovely graves
of long grass and speedwell.
Jen Hadfield lives in Shetland and works as a writer, writing tutor and visual artist. Her collections Almanacs and Nigh No-place are published by Bloodaxe. Her third collection, Byssus, will be pubished by Picador in 2014. She blogs intermittently, at rogueseeds.blogspot.com
