Poem Sunday

I Stand Holding a Hula Hoop

Like a diving earthworm wrenched from dirt during an Easter egg hunt

by combing knees and hands doing the only speaking for a closed door child

closed behind nothing really other than the medical term autism,

a large stained glass window which is more ornate than stained

and shows on the boys face in colors more fresh than my own --

I feel stretched, too long to separate the feeling fingers

and where they search -- between which segments --

and how many there are.

I watch the children with mud colored hair

rub and dimple the earthworm

over eight inches long

and wait for its rubbery flesh

to fill out again, and they crab

sideways as one pastel, spring colored child

tripping over fraying wicker baskets

brittle from long summers and winters in the attic,

and they drag tangled Easter grass

on the Velcro flaps of their tiny shoes.

I stand in a hula hoop, holding it limply,

but tight enough to separate me. I wish

my wants were a worm -- simple and clear.

The fading hard boiled eggs

rest under tiny ants spilling black veins

across stray grass blades

and early dandelion stems that brush

against the sanded stucco surfaces

of the eggs the adults could have eaten.

The adults shake their heads

from the back porch balcony

looking down at the children

shaking their heads

bargaining to hold the worm

for as long as it holds their interest.

Amid the shaking heads I swing the hoop

and lock eyes with the closed boy. Confused

between wanting to be and wanting to possess,

I wish he was me; I wish he was my own.

Then the closed boy

alone, returns the worm

home and feeds it

lumps of rotted fruit

and rooted clumps of dirt

and soot and ashes emptied

from the stove

he knows will glow again

during the long months of winter,

and he turns, comforts me

as the sun streaks

through colored pictures

told by the images

of his face.