Geoff Page: Two Poems

On Cuteness

Each language has a word for it,

separately invented.

Lorenz established babies need it

simply to be fed.

Puppies have it in abundance,

small and wobbly, well-disposed.

Toddlers who are cute themselves

can recognise their simulacra.

“Isn’t she a little cutie?”

the world must sing in unison,

encountering the mother

stopping on a street.

Teddy bears are said to have it

but never quite succeed.

Almost everyone who’ll read this

once was cute but is no longer.

So where does all that cuteness go?

Mostly, it is handed down,

sibling through to sibling.

She who steals big sister’s share

will never be forgiven.

Bossiness is all that’s left.

Kings Cross may offer minxiness

but that’s another word.

Cute can be pejorative—

the “don’t you come all cute with me!”,

the “wasn’t she too cute by half?”—

but that is not the granddaughter

burbling in a stroller or

grandson who, with backwards smile,

crawls towards the door

or tries his undecided legs

from chair to chair to…