AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXIV. Disappearances

. . . . . 1

Crisscrossed limbs of winter trees
. . . . . rise along this winding river bank

yet littered with wet leaves. Heaps
. . . . . of bright clouds drift downstream,

moving through a struggling noon
. . . . . sunshine as blue skies shift to white.


. . . . . 2

Alex appears to like that blanched
. . . . . wintry sunlight as it seeps between

these tree branches—the long lines
. . . . . of silhouette drawn on a steep incline

of lawn—smiles when he finally sees
. . . . . first flakes fill the folds of old weeds.


. . . . . 3

Every dim December evening seems
. . . . . to disappear into an empty night sky

as quickly as a slipknot, its string
. . . . . pulled tight, suddenly becomes undone,

or as silver coins might vanish, lost
. . . . . to sight by a magician’s sleight of hand.


. . . . . 4

For more than three weeks now,
. . . . . our son continues to refuse to speak

one word, his soft voice silenced
. . . . . by a will of stolen language. Though

Alex still listens to each question
. . . . . we ask, conversation has been absent.


. . . . . 5

We await the uncertainty of another
. . . . . cold front while the Weather Channel

warns of heavy snowfall. Tomorrow
. . . . . morning we will note the slow erasure

of everything, even those natural
. . . . . features marking grounds around us.


. . . . . 6

The storm will arrive by dawn,
. . . . . sometime just before Alex awakens

for his birthday only to notice
. . . . . once more the way this landscape

has transformed, those familiar
. . . . . details of his world again taken away.