When I talk about him, people offer all they have
to give—a pained expression, a nameless energy
they mean to disentangle from their hearts and initial,
like my grandmother used to initial the right-hand
corners of her paintings before giving them away.
When I take him somewhere, I keep my head down.
We’ve been asked to leave too many supermarkets,
hospitals, and churches. I’ve learned that eye contact
is a transfer of power—if I withhold it, they leave us
alone. If I withhold it, we can stay. He is safe.
When I pray for him, the same black words flit past
my mind like blackbirds past a windshield: Please,
Lord, let him speak. I open my eyes. Did it work
this time? Between us lies a silence that stretches so far
I cannot see the end. I see only the unwaning blue.