I lend you my children. They come to you
in many forms: some with butterfly wings,
diaphanous windows of color through which
light can pass, raining rainbows behind them
on every surface over which they fly. Those wings
are hidden under a thick, fleshy hide: those caterpillars
grow wings by their own faith and sometimes, out of
your sight.
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Category Archives: Asperger Poetry
Code
Dear H: for those of us to whom words
sometimes do not easily run, saunter, or even
amble: we speak in code. We think in code. We
construct our languages painstakingly
like little Tolkiens, separated by time, distance, and space:
but the Hobbits and the Elves ain’t got
nothing on us. We have the dexterity
of pictures, objects, or even
moving film to send messages to world,
Saga
This is the saga of a
frizzy-haired little brown girl wonder
that stuffs entire libraries inside her jacket.
She is lassoed through the eye, tethered to
every little glistening lavender ball of fairy
dust and every turquoise sun that rises over
kachina heads. She replays the limbo dance of
sunsets, the rainbows of staffs and clefs, and the
Kundalini coils of incense stretching to full length and
rising up to touch Heaven.
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1 in 88, Nicole Style
If you’ve met one autistic person,
you’ve met one autistic person.
– Unknown
i. photograph
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.
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Shades of Color
Emergence by Nicole Nicholson
In my world, everything matches.
Or compliments each other.
Or hopefully, just “goes”.
You see, along with
every other piece of data I have
ingested, I have loaded the color wheel
into my brain. And colors
become encyclopedia notes:
there is an exactness in what I do.
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Begin
Begin
with a little brown baby with
eyes like lenses and film
positioned behind optic nerve cables
in constant transmission: the birthday cake,
the paper brown bag turned into a crinkling toy,
and the yellow walker become a picture of
Birthday Number One. Number Two
is made of a white lace and red velvet dress
and frizzy brown-black hair like a cloud crown
surrounding a little head with a little grin
and the same pair of camera eyes.
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Pavements
Every morning, our feet take stretches of road
like pages, like pavements that have not yet
born our words, our miles, our smiles,
our tears. We reach up, we reach out,
we bring wheels to asphalt hoping that the next day
is not split in two by a fissure crack –
or two, or twenty –
of heartbreak. Yes, we humans chase pavements. And we
do it again, and again, and again. I do it every morning,
trying not to look behind me.
