AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXIII. Learning Sign Language: “Yes”

. . . . . 1

Driving home from the post office,
. . . . . we notice a stalk of black smoke growing,

rising from that blister of wreckage
. . . . . in the distance, its far-off image dimly lit

by late daylight, the dying sunshine
. . . . . hiding behind one fine line of cloud cover,

a dark couple of charred semis still
. . . . . smoldering in the lingering heat of summer.


. . . . . 2

When we ask Alex whether he sees
. . . . . this sign of damage hovering high above

the road ahead, my son, from whom
. . . . . we’ve heard no more than a word or two

for four months, slowly folds fingers
. . . . . into a fist (gesturing the way his mother

taught) as though to knock, hoping
. . . . . for opening of an unseen door before him.