Activity

They want to trap you in the flatness of their paper charts
They lay snares of straight lines

and sharp corners

Because you are different
they name you with short, sharp words

autistic,
A.D.D.,
hyper

They say something’s wrong
He won’t speak

when spoken to,

He won’t count to five
or say his ABCs

or play with other kids his age

With pens poised above graphs they wait
‘What color is the umbrella, Alex?’

You look through them

past the picture of the yellow umbrella
past the calm beige walls

through time,
and space

Tattooed behind your cautious eyes is the path
through the Milky Way
In the dark of your room when I lean down to kiss you
I can still see how the stars laid themselves out
and guided you down to nestle

under my ribs

When you were born I didn’t count fingers and toes
Instead, like momma bear, I nuzzled you
and breathed in your familiar scent

You smelled like new clothes and cedar
and the water from the river behind my grandfather’s house

I touched the oblong scar on your belly
knowing then you were a gift from the spirits
What had made that mark?

Musket ball?
Arrowhead?
Spear?

The woman with the clip board calls you ‘cute’ and ‘precious’

She can sense the agenda stamped on your soul
But she doesn’t have the words to articulate
so she speaks in baby talk, thinking it’s you
who doesn’t understand

The nurse bends down to peer into your eyes
I want to ask her if she can see it too
But she turns away without comment
maybe the bright reason in the room has nullified the answers
that I find there
the same way the blinding lights of the city

wash away the path through the stars
at night