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.