Christian Butterfield

you cannot write an autism poem

without becoming: a diagnostic framework; that running
                        gag where autism speaks but can autism shut the fuck up?

                       the hypothetical apocalypse of your birth; the abstraction
of your death; that thimerosal-baby; some starseed shrouded

in miracle; their mandatory generosity; a puzzle piece carved
                       into your mother’s calf; your individualized education plan;

                       the savant; the savant of your smile rehearsing itself to the
mirror; that crooked kaleidoscope; that electroshock collar;

a constant becoming and constant cure; a cure for that cure;
                       a cure for that mask sewn to your face in the shape of your

                       face; a listform; another list of forms: ballad of baby-babble
sonnet of strobe-light, blank-verse gone nonverbal; a rubric

and you failed it: failed it, failed it, fail— call this anaphora
                       or echolalia. you’ll never know when to shut the fuck up.