Ann Arbor Review
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Silver Grey Fox
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GOD'S FACE IN MY BATHTUB
In the bath, my son rocks back and forth,
a metronome of monotonous movement.
He holds a mouthful of water, maintains
a closed-lipped smile to contain it
until he can't anymore. Laughter escapes, breaks
against his will. Water falls down his chest.
I ache because I will never know
what thought from what far off place
is making him so happy, causing
this moment of pure elation, nothing
and everything is here in this room.
Sitting beside the ocean of his bath,
tides rolling toward a shore of simplicity,
home, evening, Saturday,
I know something, finally, of autism,
of what it means to be consumed by feeling.
I cannot break his beauty into digestible pieces,
cannot separate contrast of pale skin from
cracked-open blue of eyes, twin lights
of reflection swimming inland.
I am overwhelmed. Gazing on
the face of God himself, I have to look away.
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