Maria Thompson Corley

One of our Readers from the Saturday Night ALL KINDS OF CRAZY LOVE - POEMS ON LOVE shared these poem of hers.  Thank you for your gift, Maria.

Malcolm


Malcolm is mysterious.

Autism does that

when the “cures” don't work.

He talks

to himself

a lot,

to me,

only occasionally.

He answers

where, what, when,

not why or how.

His smile,

luminous;

his laugh,

irresistible;

reasons for his hilarity

(in bed each night

or randomly, inappropriately)

obscure:

“What's so funny, Malcolm?”

He won't say.

Or can't.


I pray.


Malcolm is bound

by misunderstandings.

Autism does that

when the “cures” don't work.

How to explain

not waving at men

when he's been taught

to greet everyone?
“It doesn't make sense, but...”

So he doesn't listen.

Will he get a job?

Will he fall in love?

I pray he has the chance

for willing surrender,

to a woman.

I pray the police never ask

for his unwilling surrender

or mistake his autistic behavior

for noncompliance.


I pray.


Malcolm is free.

Autism does that, too.

Free

to immerse

in his favorite virtual reality,

no glasses needed.

Free

to like

any music at all

without worrying

if he's cool enough

or black enough.

Free

to do

zumba and tap,

no matter who sees.

Free

to be

gentle.

Free

to be

sweet.

Free

from having to impress

with a. stone cold, rigid mask

of masculinity.

Free

to be

Malcolm.


And because

Malcolm

feels free,


I pray.


Maria Thompson

Copyright 2016



************************************************


Archeology


You surveyed my

terrain and staked my 

perimeter, undaunted that

the parched sediment had long

withstood excavation.


You penetrated my

crust, then gingerly 

pick-axed congealed fury, 

metamorphed to

marble indifference by 

leaden disillusion.


You scraped away

layers of resistance then

sifted through grimy particles

of fear, seeking fragments

of surrender.

 

Deep beneath, a bolted door.

You broke the seal, inching

through snarled, darkened

corridors, shedding 

warm, amber beams 

of lamplight on

long-forgotten walls. 


You found, within 

the labyrinth,

bone-dry bones. 


Can your empathetic ear

lay sinew on the dusty

skeleton of my desire?

Can your phosphorescent smile

bring flesh and skin?

Can the delicate brush 

of your fingertips tickle 

and tease until I 

awake, imbibing your

prophecy, gasping for

life-giving breath?

  

Can your lips remind me of 

things I’ve forgotten how

to miss?


Copyright 2019 by Maria Thompson Corley



Dr. Maria Thompson Corley, a Juilliard-trained pianist, composer/arranger and voice actor, was born in Savanna-la-Mar, Jamaica, and raised in Canada. A contributor to Broad Street Review, she blogged for Huffington Post. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Chaleur, Kaleidoscope, Fledgling Rag, The Write Launch, and Midnight and Indigo. Her novels were published by Kensington (Choices), Createspace (Letting Go) and Kindle Vella (More Than Enough).


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