A clamshell rises from watery depths,
she’s a beauty, her strawberry blonde adorned
by rosebuds wrapping her waist.
The museum label reads: Botticelli, “Venus,” this what must be meant by peaches and cream. Her face, that
pure. I count three eyes, knowing people will call her special too.

How April!


Surreal, how April is autism and poetry month, how poetic really,

Surreal, too, I imagine, how it must be to be autistic, or poetic, maybe both. I watch fish in a tank, imagine how one can only get so close to being a fish if one is not a fish.  I try imagining myself as a fish inside the tank looking out, trying to figure out why the family is rushing past, or what’s a family? I imagine myself saying, as a fish. 

Outside looking in, inside looking out.

Every morning my six-year-old son and I “swim” to our car, get into our “submarine.” We putter past imaginary blow fish near the mailbox.

“Pink reefs over there!” I say to my son. 

Today we saw a spotted blue whale with cute spotted blue whale babies over a glen plaid hill, shrieked at too close sharks chasing us to school before the first bell.

I imagine myself painting the painting at home and someone buying the painting.

“How nice,” I imagine I say to my son when I’m done, “someone bought the painting of our family, the picture now hangs on someone’s family room wall (maybe over a fish tank).

Surreal how April is autism and poetry month.


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