To My Daughter

My daughter, nearly two, curious,
blabbering, jabbering, you who can already say
mommy, daddy, quack-quack and ruff-ruff,
you who twirl to Mom’s Josh Groban CD,
where did you develop this will of your own?

When I come at you with a spoon and say
“swallow these smeared Lima beans,"
your mouth should spring open.

Another thing. (Grab a crayon. Take notes.
No, not Mango Tango! This is serious!
Find a bleak color. Here. Use Edgar Allan Purple.)
Now, when I say, “don’t touch that,”
DON’T TOUCH THAT!
(Write, “DON’T TOUCH THAT,” in capitol letters.)

What is this, my child, this desire to taste the forbidden fruit?
Surely your first parents would never think of such a thing.
Whether it’s the camera, the computer, the clicker,
my collection of original paintings from
the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
or the electronic snot-extractor, it is the same:
To you it shall be unclean. (Write, “UNCLEAN.”)

Though, I suppose later this willpower
will serve you well when the neighborhood boys
try to lure you into their cars-
of course you won’t want to go in their cars-
and maybe this wild streak of willpower will one day
catapult you into a cloud, metaphorically speaking,
and then you will literally
transform into a gigantic smiling sunflower
that everyone will want to sniff!
(Ooh, that’s good. Write that down.
Use the Mango Tango.)