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.