Don’t hand her another.
She’s too young, does not understand the harm she inflicts.
Each one – gripped in her dimpled, pudgy hands – wriggles, thrashes, droops,
is reduced to a limp length of still-brilliant spring green.
Laughing, she tosses them aside – lifeless; they land
belly up, curled on the flags beneath her high chair –
the first, the second, and the third.
Please – don’t hand her another.
She doesn’t understand.
— C.Birde, 10/18