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"If there's anything we know about the autistic brain,"
states Dr. Wolf, watching me, intent, "it's that nothing
goes away." In answer-cautious, but content-I nod,
consider what to say. I would like to tell her my mind
is a shattered mirror, that its prodigal fragments scatter
to every last crevice and corner, beyond tenable hope
of retrieval. Simulacra ensnared, writhing, relivable,
freed from their original frames. Longing to confess
that glass-cold-to-molten, mercury-backed-transforms
thought into pierced flesh, soundly refuses translation,
slips my tongue. Thank the keyboard gods for pristine
conveyance, but a pen's what I'm stuck with. My wrist
jerks stiffly; my fingers jot cliffs. Once I'm home , I think,
I'll get this down, fashion you verse of it. And then I blink.
Trillium thrive on the strip-
mined hills, sip acid rain
like prosecco. They wait
for love, or they make do
with sun. Underground
coal fires set tepid shoots
to yawning. Even roots
curled in thawing clay
know to wake. Split
the shale of my heart
for this last white-petaled
devotion. Rust streaks each
of three. Pick a card. Any.
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