The autistic child’s fingers fly across
the keys releasing inaudible syllables
of joy, floating upward between
He tilts his head slightly
to catch the reflection of the lyrical words,
melting into his ears, secretly
My round teacher lips release
a question, “sing, sing, sing” repeated
in his head, an echo. He shows me the notes
clinging to his breath.
“This room is my blanket.
This day is my hug.
Hold the love from my eyes.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.