Autism
She finds the jar in the morning
On his bedside table
Like a lamp that has gone out.
She told him to
Punch holes in the lid
So they could breathe
But he must have forgotten.
There is in their abdomens
Still the faintest glow
Like the glimmer of eye
She saw under her father’s lids,
Like he was watching
The procession, judging
The sincerity of their tears.
She doesn’t know why
It isn’t enough
For him just to hold them
A moment in his cupped hands
Like she used to when
She was his age, then
Let them go.
She’ll have to talk to him,
She thinks as
She rinses the jar out,
But not before
She has seen the first one
Rise out of the dark ground.