A few weeks ago I posted about one of my new favourite books, “To What Miserable Wretches Have I Been Born? Revenge Poetry for Babies and Toddlers,” a poetry collection by Suzanne Weber. Here’s another gem:

Where Are My Hands?

I had hands.

I know I did.

I was born with them.

They were there this morning.

What have you done with them?!!??

For that matter, where are my arms?

Last thing I remember,

you lay me on a blanket

and just kept

wrapping

and twisting

and tucking

and tightening

and then

I had no hands.

Or arms.

Come to think of it, can’t really see my legs or feet either.

And what exactly do you expect me to do in this position?

It’s not really conducive to anything except lying here.

What if I just fall asleep like this?

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Have this little limbless body fall asleep

so you wouldn’t have to think

about my needs and attending to them.

You might as well have gotten yourself a houseplant.

Or a throw pillow.

Or a pet rock.

Whatever. Fine.

I’ll sleep.

But only because

trying to do anything else

is

pointless.