THE KIDS Poem by Jen Hadfield

Born too soon,
Monday's child was unready to be seen;
is destined to be early for ever.

She's selected 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 dust-baths with sweeping boughs of pine.

She can find anything hidden in the dark,
as a cat finds a rabbit -

by 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.