Mia Farrow, Victim Soul (part one)

Putti we called them
:winged babies’ heads—
curly Cheshire cherubs,
swirling ‘round Mary like Dorothy’s dwarves,
bubbles down heaven’s drain.

I heard pretty first, then
party: my ninth birthday—
perched up on our garden wall,
hugging my wounded knees.

Jump the other children shouted.
Don’t I thought, and did, and

tried to laugh it off, to move.
Heads bobbed above me like apples in a tub.

Pain, I thought, is French for bread.
Cooks and nurses carried me to bed.

So tender I thought polio
that sport of skipping hooves;

thought I was getting a pony.