Goodbye, Darling

Wendy Darling returns to London, pats Nana, lies under her quilt

In the morning, she stops wishing on stars. At her age, girls don’t

act disappointed, always grow up first, never cry like a little baby

Peter has a new mother, proudly says she’s his best friend, then

returns her to London, or Toronto The Good, or the shrimp stand

Anywhere he chooses is best, like a father, baby brother, baby boy

Baby mothers all over the city haunt laundromats and dog parks

Miss Darling—boarding school, lace socks, piano keys—

subscribes to the newspaper, things baby men like, if only 

she is not smarter. She cannot remember how to play mermaids,

stop waiting, maybe, or find the forgotten poem in the drawer, 

half-written, never finished, those patient charts in the asylum—

all those baby mothers, all those Newfoundland puppies

drawn on the walls, in memory, like Nana, drawn on the walls,

drawn on the walls, all those shelves, white sheets, crisp, apple mash

kissing dogs like a little baby, baby, little, so little, little baby

Mr. Someone-or-other is here to view his wife, poor little baby

She loves the dog park, monthly walk for enrichment, upped meds

Nana was a little baby, little puppy, puppy baby, baby nanny 

Nana was a baby nanny, nanny dog, Newfoundland puppy, 

wholly unqualified to teach the poets, arrange biscuits on trays

Warm milk might cure her, Mrs. Someone-or-other, or fat peaches, 

or the seaside air, or scent therapy—rotten peach slices

balanced on her upper lip, wretched moustache, misery business

Mrs. Someone-or-other wanders off, visits her brother’s home, baby wife,

little babies, baby nanny, childhood bedroom, sealed window, face in the glass

Peter hates her because she is new, not Wendy, Mrs. Someone-or-other, 

little baby, 

wanders off

to the dog park

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien