Anything spoken once makes a bell 
of my son’s mouth. Meaning the steeple stained 
popsicle blue becomes a door that opens the moment
it’s closed. Meaning the word pray will always be whispered 
because I whispered it once. His teachers remind me
there’s never enough pause to give. Anything said is bound 
to be said many times over and in the same exact way.
Of faith to be had in the spectrum and its scripts 
walking side by side. Think of every utterance as a bridge 
to more meaningful communication. It’s kind of sweet
in a way, the classmates who tend him like little mothers 
and hold his hand every morning as he chimes, say hold my hand 
say please say thank you let go now. Remember every echo 
defines itself to the world by the way it’s born 
to decay. That I’m a teacher also. Yes, in all the ways I forget 
to notice. My God, even his smile as each finger turns 
into a version of himself that flies away, flies away.