Laura
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Don’t call me by my first name.
Keep it military, conformist, unblinking.
I’m autistic, you see, my career as a wall-climbing,
window-licking, night-screaming terror established
straight out the incubator. My name is rarely said
with love, is an umbilicus to
every broken thing. My name is sequined with too many
comorbidities and diagnostic categories, marbled around
in too many shrinks’ mouths. My name is a gift hammered flat,
it is chaos quantified, an apocrypha of meaning.
My name snaps me back for a beating like a
retractable leash.
My name is the blame for everything.
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5 Minutes on the Spectrum
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
You don’t like the use of soul, but
I’ve used mine for
all it’s worth;
driven it on blue highways till
the wheels fell off. Some say
I have none, that I’m
unforgiven
behind black-mirror eyes, but I
bloat with all the hues and etudes
and effluvia of this world, taste
the souls of criminals, of
trees and rocks; salute the Buddha
in door knobs, consult the sculpture
of Jesus’ healing hands in a
dead leaf.
Don’t believe me?
Walk in my shoes and just try
to wear a hole.
Back to Top of Page | Back to Poetry | Back to Volume 14, Issue 2 – June 2020
About the Author
Laura Saint Martin is a semi-retired psychiatric technician, grandmother, jewelry artist, and poet. She is working on a mystery/women’s fiction series about a mounted equestrian patrol in Southern California. She has an Associate of Arts, and uses her home-grown writing skills to influence, agitate, and amuse others. She lives in Rancho Cucamonga, CA with her family and numerous spoiled pets, and has dedicated her golden years to learning what, exactly, a Cucamonga is. She works at Patton State Hospital and for Rover.com. She can be contacted at two.socks@hotmail.com.
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