AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . . XVIII. At the Chapel
As late daylight moves through
. . . . . a few stained windowpanes, these walls
take on an appearance of murals,
. . . . . though printed mostly in paler shades
of primary paint. My son slowly
. . . . . guides one hand along the tinted images,
dipping his fingers into that palette
. . . . . of illuminations now brightening white
space before him—as if he is trying
. . . . . to test its temperature or in an attempt
to enter an alternative existence.
. . . . . His wide smile disguises apprehension
when he reaches to touch the green
. . . . . serpent twisting like some vine winding
around the brown bark of a branch
. . . . . toward its ruby fruit. And by the time
Alex grabs at the image—hoping
. . . . . to hold an apple, his whole arm tattooed
with a brilliant glaze—he is sure
. . . . . this world offers more colorful options.
I like how you bring us from the complexity of stained glass and its associated, perhaps difficult, imagery in what's assumed a solemn place, to the "primary paint", the simple, most basic, and tie that to the child who Alex is, giving us that wonderful image of him "dipping his fingers into that palette" and testing its wonder before he comes to the image of the serpent he recognizes as having meaning - and we know a meaning but not necessarily his - and, "sure" of it, that promise of "more colorful options", makes his move.
ReplyDeleteWonderful, and demanding of several readings.
I appreciate your careful readings of the poetry, Maureen. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteGreat :)
ReplyDelete