A Poem for Easter Saturday…reaching for Sunday.

Stations

Begin again at the point
autism’s treachery entered,
through the genes,
or the environment, or
whatever; does it matter?
Face off with the demon
arms raised, fists
clenched.

Outwardly move to attack:
intervene, gather, defend –
busy feels better, commits
you to a side, sends messages:
it’s being managed – that
you’re responsible.

Inwardly freeze,
overcome by possibilities,
probabilities, eventualities…
Resist, wrestle, wither,
all the while waiting for refreshment
which comes suspiciously, enough to extend
a self inflicted torture.

Cling to the daily.
Greet the beautiful
shining children from sleep
help them begin courageously –
touch, hold, support, offer
breakfast, snacks, activities
palatably exchanged as conversation
caretaking as relationship.

Rise to meet the storm
that comes without warning
offering your body as a receptacle,
crossing your reflexes, denying
your resistance, begging for mercy
but bending your will to receive
what only love can contain –
on your knees, hands clasped…

These are
the stations of my cross.

© 2016 Laurel Archer