like stars filling the empty night sky
of his son’s throat, words like a life raft
tossed overboard, words for the child
who has none.
His autistic son screams and grunts.
The man with a mouthful of words listens;
brings words by the hundreds,
by the thousands. They drift
in our windows at night,
mimicking the sound of crickets
or the sounds of pain
as he paces the porch;
the rants, the agitated phone calls
of this wild-haired frenetic man
who works for the post office, delivering
words to people all over his route,
letters they can read; but he can’t offer
anything to his son except his voice
which calms him. The school bus
arrives in the morning, screeching
up the hill, brakes whoosh, the door opens.
The man with a mouthful of words fills the air
with them, wraps his son like a package,
carefully padded, and delivers him to the day.
Ginger Graziano, originally from New York City, is a writer, artist and graphic designer living in Asheville, North Carolina where she receives inspiration from the mountain beauty. Her poems have been published in Kakalak, Sky Island Journal, The American Journal of Poetry, The Great Smokies Review, and Embodied Effigies. Her memoir, See, There He Is, was published in 2015. www.gingergraziano.com/writing.