portion of the artwork for Richard Weaver's poetry

Autistic boy accompanied by elements of prayer
Richard Weaver

Should I tell you, now that the windows
have lost their colors, or wait as I have
in the closed mouth of an imperfect child
for an afternoon of reasons? It’s useless
to imagine what sound opens in dream,
and what remains caught in the habits of stones.

But there were times when I almost spoke to you,
when silence loosened around my tongue.
I could have told you once upon a time
what holds me, keeps me inside. I keep instead
my private song where the windows hold
bright colors and I can see outside them
the silver branches of the sycamore,
the edges pulling away from light.
In its plaited leaves night still stretches
tight as the throat of a morning blue jay.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 54 | Fall/Winter 2019