after Letter from the Summer House by Oksana Zabuzhko
Because yesterday, only nine days old, he shouted,
“Turn off the sky!”, and hasn’t said a word since.
Today, I heard his lame legs dragging in the garden.
Only ten days old, his eyes danced through my window
assessing, his mouth gaped like a landed pike’s.
The town women call him “filthy”, but not me.
Only eleven days old, caught him in my yard
again. My taunted dogs whimpered and ran from him.
Moonlight shone in his eyes, I saw they glowed green.
Only twelve days old, still prey to the old infant.
Found my front door ajar, things inside rearranged.
It was nothing, just worried, wild imaginings.
Only thirteen days old, he sunk his teeth in my calf.
Mistaken yesterday, I thought I was alone.
The plums I bought bounced the floor when he jumped on me.