In Ikea the mothers young and old
push their giant babies
in three-wheeled chariots
like little gods 

how big will they grow?
will they expand like
inflatable rafts
rounded and bouncing,
their feet pounding on
              our smaller heads,
their cries bringing down seagulls
that mistake them for cliffs,
their pudgy hands
growing into meaty fists
that demand with unfailing menace? 

these mothers must stop
their monstrous offspring
must tip them out
of their luxury strollers
and roll them up and down
the aisles
like tubes of biscuit dough
whittling away at them
until they are safely
small again.

Sherryl Clark

I literally wrote this poem after trying to shop in Ikea. It was a weekday morning, and everywhere I went there were women wheeling these huge 4WD strollers they all have now. And what seemed even more bizarre was that each stroller I glanced into contained a huge, moon-faced baby! I kept thinking about what it would be like if kids just kept getting bigger, and the poem emerged.

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