Sonnet for My Autistic Brother
by Gianne Braza
You arrived with a storm of cord, wringing
Your small neck. Blue. Purple. Gone. We lost you—
But you found us. The doctor had unwound
Death. You cried out, “Look at me. Look at me.”
For thirty years, it’s all you say to us.
You wail. “Please, tell us what’s wrong,” we plead, but
You whale tight fists like a tempest—
As if you’ve become what tried to kill you.
I’m sorry. I don’t know how to love you
At arm’s length. We’ve only spoken in bruise,
Blood, bandage. It’s all you say to us, yet
I know you when you’re happy. You don’t speak.
You sing. Even now, I hear you chirping
In the kitchen: “Baby bird. Baby bird.”