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.
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