Stop.

Just stop.

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.

Just stop.

Stop.

— C.Birde, 10/18