AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XVII. Basketball with Alex


. . . . . 1

He dribbles as though with rhythms
. . . . . learned from listening to those older

recordings of mine, the vintage jazz
. . . . . he loves so much. Each time driving

the basket, he even seems to imitate
. . . . . the pulse of remembered downbeats.


. . . . . 2

Counting every bounce, he bounds
. . . . . across half court toward an empty net,

appearing to appreciate reassurance
. . . . . he receives whenever the ball returns,

trusts that way it always snaps back
. . . . . as if never wanting to leave his hand.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XVI. The Art of Memory

First he lists the digits, numerals
. . . . . tied together in his mind like ivory

beads for keeping count on a rosary.
. . . . . He knows intimately those figures

most cannot fathom, has memorized
. . . . . pi to thousands of places. He claims

he visualizes the numbers printed
. . . . . as columns of cuneiform characters

posed in pictures seen on a tinted
. . . . . screen, perhaps in the way Cezanne

celebrated nature’s abstract gifts
. . . . . by suddenly delivering vivid imagery,

broad lush brush strokes imitating
. . . . . its right angles and the vibrant tones

or those blunt shapes of dull stones,
. . . . . discovering true hues of shrubbery,

finding bright lines of sunshine, light
. . . . . lsliding over slopes of shadowy hills.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XV. Seeking Inklings in an Old Video

He held mussel shells—indigo blue inside and black
. . . . . on back—or those round pebbles he had

found rolling like dark marbles in the tidewater
. . . . . wash, as if he had a handful of hard candy.

The wind’s speed picked up, the sea shining behind
. . . . . him, each wave displayed like a crinkled

sheet of tinfoil unfurled under that day’s final
. . . . . splay of sunlight. Every one of our son’s

uneasy steps at the ocean’s edge left an impression,
. . . . . still refilling with water—even as I witness

it now, in midwinter three years later. We could
. . . . . not have known then to watch for the few

symptoms we would soon learn to view with fear.
. . . . . Even those little hints we missed, a lack

of balance whenever he would lean to lift another
. . . . . stick of driftwood, as if the shoreline’s

slant had suddenly become too steep, or the tipped
. . . . . head and sideways glance he’d give us,

though we thought he only wanted reassurance,
. . . . . were never seen as dubious sorts of acts

that ought to indicate a reason to have misgivings.
. . . . . But to the two of us, now so suspicious,

feeling guilt, every unsure move that camera caught
. . . . . appears to be uninvestigated evidence left

behind, even in this scene when the tape runs to its end.
. . . . . He sits on the sand, back toward the shore,

counting out his collection of shells in a single file,
. . . . . as if pretending every one of them were part

of some private treasure, the way anyone might
. . . . . arrange family keepsakes, jewels or gems

kept as heirlooms somewhere in a darkened drawer,
. . . . . brought out for comfort in a time of grief.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XIV. Lake Gulls at Daybreak

Again the daylight begins
. . . . . in stages as a vague sun gives way

to flames rising high behind
. . . . . that drapery of gray sky still shading

a smooth glaze of lake water
. . . . . tinted jade beneath it. A tattered

patch of flat pasture borders
. . . . . this shoreline, an edge of dead grass

aligned alongside the dunes,
. . . . . where white-winged gulls with ringed

bills fly by, lift, hover above
. . . . . in an onshore wind. I watch my son

run through a few shallow
. . . . . pools along the soft slope of beach.

Each time he reaches out
. . . . . toward the birds floating overhead

as if holding a bright new kite
. . . . . with tightening string, feeling every

bob or weave aloft, hoping
. . . . . he might reel one in before we leave.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XIII. Dark Refuge

My son runs among the thick trees in this wildlife
. . . . . refuge, and I’m amazed at his ability to maneuver

through the narrow gaps—leaping each obstacle
. . . . . in the covered maze, jumping every exposed root

jutting up or fallen branch underfoot—leading
. . . . . me through those limited openings as if he knows

where he is going, even though we have never
. . . . . been here before. He seems unafraid of what lies

ahead. Birds chirp somewhere in the dark snarl
. . . . . of limbs looming above us, then fly away unseen.

By the time we reach a wide clearing, I’m nearly
. . . . . out of breath and in need of rest, but Alex appears

refreshed, ready to begin again. Without a word,
. . . . . he rushes by me, back to that black web of shadow.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XII. Island Fever

Far from home, my son sleeps
. . . . . off his fever, bedspread kicked

free and knotted at his knees.
. . . . . For more than four hours, I have

listened to his labored breathing,
. . . . . a repeated wheeze kept as steady

as the sloughing of surf foam
. . . . . we have seen slip down shallow

slopes of the beach bordering
. . . . . along this inlet’s curving shore,

knowing how often, looking
. . . . . through his bedroom window,

I would watch a bright moon
. . . . . shed its light over that meadow

spread out across the county
. . . . . road from our house, dividing

nighttime into black and white
. . . . . as those large irregular shadows

of old oaks closer by fan out,
. . . . . form dark islands along the lawn,

places I imagine only the bravest
. . . . . among us aren’t ever afraid to enter.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XI. Song for One Who Cannot Speak

Another flare of morning light shows
. . . . . over the threshold of low and rolling

hills that lies before us, and even
. . . . . as this early sun, seemingly weightless,

rises into an otherwise empty sky,
. . . . . I wonder why I believe today may

be any different. Last evening
. . . . . as I was writing in my notebook,

I listened to the distant drift of melody
. . . . . lifting from a radio somewhere beyond

this balcony, a song with its music now
. . . . . muffled and lyrics as soft as an intimate

late-night whisper murmured between
. . . . . lovers. Though those words could not

be heard, carried away as easily
. . . . . as autumn leaves in a sea breeze

or those far-off harbor boats
. . . . . that disappear at dusk in a developing

mist, I imagined phrases forming
. . . . . themselves, sentences taking shape—

lots of white space clotted by ink blots
. . . . . of notes and by organized knots of letters,

like lines from lost compositions
. . . . . rediscovered, found inside an old record

album. I pictured these symbols
. . . . . that mimic speech, the way I sometimes

do when I watch your struggle
. . . . . to be heard, mouthing sounds that never

emerge, as instead an absence is further
. . . . . emphasized, only the silence is noted.

Once again, I imagine—if on this day
. . . . . the doctors were proven wrong—how

your voice might imitate that song,
. . . . . and I wonder what you would say.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . X. Night of the Diagnosis

Daylight faded to black hours ago.
. . . . . Now, I notice a single star light

the summer sky the way one silver
. . . . . earring glistens when a woman’s

hand lightly brushes back her hair.
. . . . . In this stillness, I sit and listen

to windless silence while my wife
. . . . . and son sleep, the invisible vines

twisting like twine in the darkened
. . . . . garden, where tomatoes and red

peppers continue their slow growth
. . . . . unseen in an act that constitutes

some secret counter to the chaos
. . . . . we will all witness with sunrise.

AUTISM: A POEM.

. . . . . IX. Uncertainty


. . . . . 1

The late-day rain gives way
. . . . . to a few final lines of sunset

still slipping a bit through
. . . . . low cloud cover. A dark file

of empty boxcars returning
. . . . . from marketplace approaches.


. . . . . 2

While our son watches,
. . . . . outside his bedroom window

each one slowly rolls by,
. . . . . awkwardly swaying as it slides

past the last light showing
. . . . . along a straight edge of horizon.


. . . . . 3

The freight trains’ distant
. . . . . chug and dull thuds always grow

nearby. Though no longer
. . . . . tugging cargo, they strain, stutter,

sound as uncertain as any
. . . . . statement uttered under duress.


. . . . . 4

By midnight, when silence
. . . . . resides here once again, even

those empty cars will be lost.
. . . . . In sleep, all we know disappears

farther back into the tight
. . . . . knot of a moonless night.

AUTISM: A POEM.

. . . . .VIII. Night Terrors

. . . . . 1

Even now as he wakes to see me, knows
. . . . . I have been watching him sleep, he still keeps

close to his side that thick book he’d hidden
. . . . . all night long under his covers, with one nearly

fisted hand holding it so tightly that I might
. . . . . not be able to read the raised and finely-printed

white letters extending like a small animal’s
. . . . . vertebrae along the length of its spine, spelling

out those dry technical title words spread
. . . . . across another of his mother’s medical texts.


. . . . . 2

Each night he reads what he can understand
. . . . . now about how the body’s outward appearance

often deceives, warnings of its weakness
. . . . . remaining unseen like those few signs of life lost

beneath the little lake outside his bedroom
. . . . . window, its still water frozen and snowed over

ever since winter’s first frost. He seems
. . . . . to be seeking some sense of security that might

arise from learning answers to unformed
. . . . . sentences, the questions he is yet unable to ask.

. . . . . 3

The graphics picture all kinds of diseases,
. . . . . and I wonder if these images feed his dreams,

frighten him late at night after the set timer
. . . . . turns off his dresser light or those weak final

beams of moonlight—drifting down cold
. . . . . air currents, sifting through the now bare trees,

falling among the house’s eaves, filtering
. . . . . between curtains in his window—fade away,

whether he believes even shrouds of darkness
. . . . . cannot erase what he’s seen, cannot ease any pain.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . VII. Hyperlexia

My son eyed the large wide print
. . . . . stenciled across an interstate billboard.

At three, he’d already taught himself
. . . . . to read over a year earlier, even before

he could tell anyone how well he knew
. . . . . to spell words we had never heard him

speak. My wife and I were surprised
. . . . . once again by the way he said terms

learned through no method we know—
. . . . . on this day reciting lines of a highway

advertisement shining under bright
. . . . . summer sunlight, its gold and red

lettering—“Family accommodations,
. . . . . adventurous activities, and exciting

attractions ahead”—sending a message
. . . . . to tourists that now seems meant more

to us as a lesson we only discovered
. . . . . somewhere farther down the road.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . VI. Learning Words

On this early December morning, so warm
. . . . . winter appears merely a rumor, my son sits

stiff-backed on a wooden bench, watching
. . . . . above with wonder as he notices the absence

of leaves in the large oak trees around him,
. . . . . although he already has been taught how to live

with loss, to appreciate that which is missing.
. . . . . When he stares down at that dark brown patch

of bare ground where the park’s flower
. . . . . garden had still been bright and full of colors

just a couple of months ago, he repeats
. . . . . those strange names he had finally learned

to speak at summer’s end—day lilies,
. . . . . dahlias, asters, and, at last, chrysanthemums—

now so proud of his growing vocabulary.
. . . . . Yet, after he finishes stating his seasonal

litany, we must begin again, as he mouths
. . . . . each word I say: icicle, blizzard, hibernation . . .

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . V. Winter Images


. . . . .1

All night long a slow moving snowstorm
. . . . . has filled the tree lines along these hillsides.

In morning light the wedges of evergreens,
. . . . . dressed white, ride higher ridges like those set

mainsails of old boats we’d often view last
. . . . . summer floating lazily just off shore in slight

August breezes, dyed by a low angle of evening
. . . . . sun still shining brightly against their triangles.


. . . . .2

When my son and I walk toward the woods
. . . . . not far behind our house, follow closely each

small cloud of breath appearing ahead of us—
. . . . . as though there were no other way we could

measure evidence of life on so pale a day—
. . . . . we see even these few tall poplars rising nearby,

their limbs yet empty of leaves, seem bleached
. . . . . white or covered now with linen cloth, in need

of some color, perhaps as in those seasonal
. . . . . prints of tinted poplars Monet once had painted

more than a century ago. The artist so loved
. . . . . his rich images of those trees he bought the land

where they stood until he filled his canvases,
. . . . . but then sold his models’ good wood for lumber.


. . . . .3

Alex removes both of his gloves to touch
. . . . . the whiteness—lifting a thick clump of snow

in one hand, tracing the length of an icicle
. . . . . with a thumb—lingering until his thin fingers

are almost numb. Although usually content
. . . . . to live merely in images on the page or within

a frame, whether summer or winter, I know
. . . . . my son can only feel the cold, must make it real.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . IV. Autumn Disorder

I watch outside our kitchen window as my son
. . . . . cleans dried leaves from the darkening rose garden

beside that yard barn used mostly as a tool shed.
. . . . . Tall stalks of summer’s flowers are now brown

and have gone bare. The shadow of a nearby file
. . . . . of evergreens forming the rear property line rises

waist–high, but his eyes seem blinded by a low
. . . . . angle of afternoon sunlight, and he does not know

I see him. Two empty fruit trees yet spread open
. . . . . their thin branches above his head, and I can tell

he is speaking softly to himself, slowly counting
. . . . . out loud each leaf he bags, as though he still hopes

he will bring some sort of order to this world
. . . . . he once again feels has fallen down all around him.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . III. Early Spring

Squinting from this distance, we see new
. . . . . flowers now growing in our neighbor’s

garden seem nothing more than colorful
. . . . . splotches, as if someone had smudged

circles on a canvas, each simply fitted
. . . . . into its handsome landscape by a quick

stab of twisted brush stroke. A cold
. . . . . breeze still eases through willow trees

like a sigh that signals resignation,
. . . . . stirring the green leaves already filling

in early spring, as splashes of sunlight
. . . . . filter through their thin limbs and settle

like shreds of tatted lace, swatches
. . . . . as white as fine linen, littering the lawn.

Farther on, a hurried rustle of feathers,
. . . . . then a flurry when a flock of waxwings

flushed out of bushes by our son flashes,
. . . . . rises high above everything, and an empty

sky is suddenly split with that high string
. . . . . of wings sliding by, stragglers swinging

like kites into a few loose rings overhead.
. . . . . All day, my wife and I have been strangely

occupied by such minor changes in that
. . . . . set arrangement of the world around us.

During this season, so much in transition,
. . . . . still we sit on a stone bench in a broken

lacework of shade beneath these trees,
. . . . . watch those last waxwings wheel over

a neighbor’s house and above our son,
. . . . . anticipate the slow erosion of daylight.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . II. Sounds of Warning

He doesn’t understand how the terms he’s heard
. . . . . have any meaning beyond mere music filling his ears,

even as he listened to this rising lilt of his mother’s
. . . . . voice, though she spoke softly at first, hoping to offer

a warning of harm yet without risking his physical
. . . . . reactions to stress when alarmed. But now her words

lift above a high whine of the town’s tornado siren
. . . . . and a couple of quick thuds, distant thunder arriving

from somewhere along the horizon. There, bright
. . . . . cracks of lightning still splinter that blue-black sky,

backlighting the web of a neighbor’s diseased elm,
. . . . . as if its twist of wilted limbs had suddenly come alive.

AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . I. Summer Storm

Tonight, a summer storm brightens the sky,
. . . . . striking with its quickly lit filaments of lightning

and moving through like that late freight train
. . . . . traveling toward an early morning rendezvous

at a transfer station somewhere north of here,
. . . . . barely beyond the state line. My son wakens, shaken

by the sudden thunder, the longer jutting limbs
. . . . . of an old oak weighted with wet leaves scraping

against the vinyl siding running just underneath
. . . . . the eaves. Already, a frustrated search for speech,

each word lost like the black surface of that little
. . . . . lake now hidden behind his shut window shades.