If you’ve met one autistic person,
you’ve met one autistic person.
Somewhere in Winnepeg,
there is an icehouse with my name still on it. A
little colored girl with candy-coated braids stands,
buried under shushing layers of polyester and goose down feather,
hooded like a monk’s secret, pretending to be Eskimo
hand held by a bundled-up mother while
house becomes mirror. She studies
the flawless lines and 90-degree angles
where ice bricks become neighbors. Nobody
mentions puzzle pieces yet.