I am searching, one day
To find someone
The light that will flood
Our eyes when we find, and
Hold hands through the river rafts
We will race in the fields
We’d have discovered a delight
As fascinating as this search
Company
A helping hand
Joke I never thought
A thought that challenges
Thinking
I used to scoop raw oats from the canister into paper dixie cups and eat them in the bathroom. Still in the single digits, my mouth was small, my teeth new, my habits strange. I loved how the dry grains filled my mouth and stuck to my throat so I could barely swallow. Little flat husks and dusty waxed paper ratted me out from the undersink trash; I climbed up on the toilet lid to see my the line of my torso stay straight, silently gave up birthday cupcakes for lent, stashed them deep in my third-grade desk — not to save, but not to waste.
I stopped eating, then started again
before I was ready to learn what to do with food.
I meal prepped and shopped in bulk, sometimes ate a block of cheese.
Now I know to sprinkle spices, splash vinegar, taste-test
and don’t carefully measure the pasta water.
I’d had a good day and was ready to make mommy proud, eating my yogurt cup with oats on top. No granola, just little flakes to be ashamed of. I dug the single-serve packet from the back of the pantry, ripped it open, and sprinkled moth maggots onto my after-school snack. Or maybe I took a bite, feeling them dance on my tongue before learning fear again.
My sourdough starter is named Ryeley.
Thank god I put that cutesy line in my bio before the pandemic, before
everyone started baking. I was there first!
impressed with French bread in France, Spanish in Spain, anything
but meh American carbs. I conjured her from the air
with food and water, my mask.
It can’t be healthy to eat like a horse, but google seems okay with it. I don’t know if that makes my habit better or worse – an extra spoonful, right into my mouth, while my oatmeal spins in the microwave. I add peanut powder for protein and listen over my shoulder, panic-swallowing with coffee ready to gulp. I limit myself to one oat meal per day when my digestion begins to suffer.
Ryeley takes two days to wake up, fed twice per day,
growing stronger with each meal.
One bake yields two loaves
one of which will go stale unless I freeze it, carefully wrapped,
one weekend of alchemy on a strict schedule
potentially infinite careful feedings of something besides myself.
It was hard to find oats when the panic shopping began. Who knew everyone ate Old Fashioned, not Quick? We already had two emergency tubs, no need to spring for Quaker’s. Oats, beans, pasta, flour, piled in the cupboard — we can still eat what we want. Fresh bread to brag about, pizza crust to gloat over, crackers and ciabatta and domestic bliss. 36 eggs in the fridge, instead of 18. Enough to last. Just don’t eat too much, don’t run low. Don’t do anything future you will despise, don’t deprive your partner.
Cook Before Sneaking A Taste
Flour is raw
Please cook fully before enjoying
smiles the warning on the bags aligned neatly in the living room cabinet
all purpose (three, and a half-full tupperware in the cupboard)
whole wheat (two, plus the one in the kitchen, with the rye, 00, and semolina
grains beside)
bread (four, a full set)
like that’s even the point of the sneak. You can’t transgress with permission.
But I enjoy the heft and cool weight, e. coli and weevils be damned,
calm rows of bags
deep enough to pour freely into the bowl atop the kitchen scale
rise, fall, rise again
discard thrown into the trash.
Mommy speaks to me every day
I look and stare
My head spins around in confusion
I move my lips
But nothing comes out
She’d take me to the park
As I watch the kids play
I wonder if I could join
Muster up the courage to talk
But yet another failed attempt
The kids try to play
They think I’m shy
A solitary play type of guy
Their words travel through my head
A jumbled up mix of alphabet soup
And yet again I’m stuck
Silence
I can tell Mommy cares about me
On this nomadic journey, she left everything behind
She dealt with my aches and pains
Her hugs and kisses spoke volumes of love
And my response
Silence
I guess Mommy got tired of this silence
As she slept in this expensive hotel suite
It crept up and haunted her at night
Money doesn’t cure all
It was a nightmare on Fifth Ave.
Something was eating at her
Silence
She gave me a handful of candy
It wasn’t my favorite
No tangy taste or colorful wrappers
But Mommy seems to enjoy it
I’d do anything to make Mommy happy
My eyelids were weighed down
Guarding glossy eyes
Mommy hugs me tight
As she babbles in the background
Helpless and disabled
I say nothing
Silence
Silent no longer
My presence is absent
These bouncy blond curls locked in a box
As 8 years replay in my mind
Silent no more
My voice is heard
This 7-letter word was the death of me
Silence
[Anatomy of a Poem – Rest in Peace Jude Jordan
Autism is not the end]
Sometimes, it really is all about the dress.
Other times, it’s about the shoes, the jewelry, the hair, the nails.
When I was younger, I wore dresses all the time. That, in and of itself, isn’t strange. But what is? Wearing a knee(ish) length dress, with heels, in Michigan. In winter. In a snowstorm. Shivering through parking lots like I owned them. Why?
Just. Because. I. Could.
Because sometimes, it’s about the dress. And that is all.
I have since revised that idea.
Not that I don’t wear dresses, I do. And I love them just as much. But now, I love being comfortable, and seasonally appropriate, even more.
Once I graduated from high school, I donated most of my prom and formal dresses to a local organization called Hope Closet.
But I had one that I kept.
I knew I’d probably never use it, and I knew then that I couldn’t fit into it.
Saturday, April 27, 2002:
It is the date of my junior prom.
It was also the day after my birthday.
Weeks before, my mom, her friend Lydia, and I had gone shopping for the perfect dress. I had an idea of what I wanted. I “shopped” online and found it. The dress.
It was an Alfred Angelo. Pale pink. Bridal like skirted bottom. Princess waist. Sparkles on the skirt.
I wanted it perfect.
The two closest peas in my (then) pod had deserted me for dates I’m sure they have forgotten long ago. And for the first time since we had started navigating our way through high school, we were not getting ready for a dance together.
I was shy back then and asking anyone to go with me took the kind of courage I wouldn’t have for years to come. But, I did it anyway.
“ The two closest peas in my (then) pod had deserted me for dates I’m sure they have forgotten long ago.”
I asked a boy I liked that was a year older than me. Clearly, he said no. This ended up not being a catastrophe.
I asked a boy I had once dated. I still liked him so much, but I hadn’t given him enough lead time.
So, I was going to go: alone.
This is why the dress needed to be perfect.
It wasn’t pink.
It is blue. It’s jewel blue satin and the bodice has small jewels that adorn its accents.
And my mom picked it out.
I had my hair done in a fancy updo style. Reflecting back, it should have had its own flight plan, zip code, something. It was big. But then, it was just right.
My mom tied the corset back and once in the dress, I was ready.
We went outside and even though it was freezing, we took photo after photo. It was brilliant!
I hugged my parents and got behind the wheel of my truck. I blew out a breath and cranked “Wish You Were Here” as loud as I could. That, and all of my favorite songs.
On the drive there, I felt my stomach clench. I was nervous to walk in alone. What if I was early? What if everyone stared at me? What if….
But thirty minutes later, I was there.
Blowing out another deep breath, I stuck my heeled feet out and stood, smoothing my perfect dress.
One foot in front of the other, just like any other walk. Right?
As I approached the door, I saw my friend Sarah and her boyfriend. Thank goodness, I said silently. I could walk in behind them and no one would notice that I was alone.
It worked. Kind of.
We veered off in different directions once through the main doors.
There I was. In my jewel blue dress, fancy hair, pretty nails. Alone.
And yeah, some people stared.
But it was okay.
It was okay.
It is okay…. I repeated.
The nerves returned and I felt like I had just burped in choir class. I didn’t even take choir.
One heeled shoe in front of the other. Catching eyes with friends, I walked the length of the room.
“A lady looks down to no one”, borrowed from my favorite princess movie.
The lights felt hot as they hit me, full blast. Was I sweating? Dear God, don’t let me be sweating right now.
Who was I waking toward? Dear God, I hope that’s Jill. The light moved and shot a laser straight into my left eye. Dear God, do not let me walk to one of “their” tables. Lead me, please, to my friends and not the “popular crowd.”
I’d be lying to say it wasn’t a little awkward. But I’d also be lying if I didn’t say it was one of my proudest moments.
I made it to the safety of my (still) best friend and her date. She embraced me and immediately, the nerves subsided and I allowed myself to take in the room, my friends, the party.
I’d walked the room.
Alone.
That one action, if traced back, planted the seed for the kind of confidence that would grow in me. It would become the ability to speak on front of a crowded room, or defend myself when no one else would, stand up for my daughter, present at conferences, and dance when everyone else isn’t.
As for my prom?
I had a ball!
And even as I drove myself home as friends went to parties and events, I was on top of the world.
I moved, nine years later, into a home of my own. My house.
Alone.
And that dress moved with me.
It hangs in a closet, not worn in eighteen years.
But, sometimes it’s about the dress.
Sometimes, it’s about a whole lot more.
I am a protractor
Bending backwards
How ever many degrees
It takes to squeeze every
Lecture for what I paid for it.
Problem #1:
Calculate the volume of this rectangular prism.
I worry so much about how much to put in
I forget how to think outside of it.
I study angles and
I’m shaping up to be quite the actor.
There are no lights nor cameras but
these people record every word and
I know which ones they’re looking for.
Problem #2:
Find the perimeter of this square.
I plot grids, crop yards, square feet,
Calculate to a tee how much fence
It takes to keep in profits, but
Can’t force a flower out of the garden.
I speak diamonds.
I pressure cook gems, these words are VVS,
I develop an acute sense for the right angles.
See, I studied circles around subjects
Just to fill circles with lead and never once
Figured out how to do anything in 3-dimensions.
Problem #3:
Find the slope of this curve.
I make points by drawing graphs;
I become a Texas Instrument
To coordinate planes.'