KEVIN PILKINGTON
My niece at age four
is already tired
of the language as we
know it. Instead
of orange juice she asked
for a glass of apple
spider and at lunch
at a diner in town
she wanted me to put
a quarter in the little
juice box next
to the table and play
a song.
When we got home
I walked up into her
bedroom in search
of some sort of proof
that she is what I always
suspected: a genius.
Perhaps there would be
books on linguistics,
philosophy, Shakespeare
or essays by Pound
who might have ignited
her passion to “make it new.”
But there was nothing
by Plato under her purple
hippo, no critical works
amongst her coloring
books or Socrates hidden
behind her dolls. Later
when her mother claimed
her daughter can't even
read and the classics
for a four year old
are Barney and Lamb Chop,
I still wasn't convinced.
So when my niece
told me she heard
I liked poet trees,
then asked where do
they grow, we both
picked up our cold
glasses of root beard
held on to each other's
hand, then headed out
the door to see if any
were growing in
the backyard.
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