The ninth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

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Red Indian

It happens every night around dusk.
We try to lie him down
under the triangular tepee
of curtains suspended above his crib.
But he awakes instantly, whooping war cries.
His screams pierce our ears like arrows
as his arms swing wildly,
banging his invisible tom-tom.
We smoke a peace pipe of lullabies
and talk him down onto the plains
of his activity mat arched
by smiling suns and sunny flowers.
But it’s a temporary, uneasy truce.
He moans, his restlessness tapered
only momentarily by a trot
in the saddle of his bouncy chair.
When the pace slows, he grimaces,
face screwed up like a totem-pole carving,
and the war cries recommence.
This Red Indian will not let go the fight so fast.
Our spirits grow heavy with desperation.
We restock our bows,
light another pipe,
but still he will not give up.
So, failing to calm him, we resort
to the one remaining course of action
and ambush him into our arms.
This done, he cedes the battle quietly:
hands up, he surrenders finally to sleep
on the slope of Daddy’s chest
and we rejoice in our hard-won peace,
all the while knowing
it is really us who have given in.