Emily Kirchner

Last week my boss asked,
"How do you know so much about autistic children?"
Truth is, they teach me
and as a teacher
I first taught myself
to hide my own DNA code.

The new boy in school can't speak
but he pressed a conch shell against his ear,
then passed it to me.
I answered that phone,
a sound only both of us could hear.

Not as far on the spectrum,
I'm a mermaid
Half between "normal world" learned by imitation,
trying to solve this aquatic equation.

Split between both,
I'm a fluctuating fraction trying not to be improper,
Seeking balance; can't rock the boat.

He's under the sea.
We can hear the same call.
He doesn't talk
but we speak underwater.
I try to ease him
from squirming fish out of water
to mer-boy.

Want to teach him:
When life gives you fish hooks
make them your hands
and be a pirate
plundering treasure from your mind,
then bring it to shore.

Want to tell him:
We can hear the ocean in a conch shell,
but can't live in one.
I'll crawl in there with you
and help you make it your home but not your bunker,
your phone and not your cell.

We press our ears against the shell
and climb outside it,
answering the siren call
of land.