Miriam Mason


(for Dad who died of Alzheimer's and my boys, Owen and Ethan, who came into this world and developed autism shortly thereafter.)

   A planet, a god of old,
Not really Silver,
   But curious,
      And mythical.

Gods named after you,
   Are slippery messengers,
Jokesters, linguists,
   Youthful and sage.

Your impartial coldness
   In our mouths,
Our veins, our organs
Mutates, changes,
   Devolves us.

   Liquid silver-like,
You mesmerize us,
   And we use you,
Dancing in your
   Fluid rivers,
Thinking your beauty
      Makes you safe.

Yet in the body,
   You sing a different song,
Invading tissues,
   Laying claim to all
You touch.
   Deadly to each tiny cell –
   The smallest consciousness –
Within us.

We invite you
   Into our bodies,
Most lovely
      Of killers.
Come dance
   With us.

* * *

THREAD (for Owen)*

Little son,
I Watch you;
Wait for a sign,
Any sign, any thread

A look, a laugh...
You are
An inexplicable
Silent echo
Of my
Own riotous

You pull away
From touch
From song
From joy
From sorrow.

In an unspoken vow -
I pull you back
To my breast
With threads
Left in
My own wreckage,
And entwine
You in my
Arms forever.

*Previously published at Associated Content


Miriam Mason was raised by a poet; her father was Leonard Nathan. She is herself a writer, poet and activist/advocate in the world of autism. She has spent the last 10 years helping her two boys toward recovery, developing an unschooling philosophy to best suit their needs. Her work has been published at Associated Content, but much remains private. She lives with her husband, children and six therapy animals just outside Portland, OR.