Here’s an ode to Fiona, and an explanation for the blog’s title. This poem is for all the mommas of special needs kids, who get the privilege of watching the gems that are their children:
Your Eyes, My Daughter, Are Genius Caliber
I spot the five-pointed star inside your iris,
blue aquatic, like a chunk
of the cartoon heavens sought a long, enduring swim.
Your gloss-black pupils reflect
my ceasing furrows, my stressed brow
easing into adoration. I see you
seeing me—mother struck
by the ancient wonder: what
in the molecules of your seeing.
A brain to move a hand to swipe my hair.
Ears to catch the peripheral
hey, and you turn to face
a face your mind already mapped—the giver
of food, love. And all your vowels,
riper than fruits in our wooden bowl,
your oohs and ahs and eys
whole as grapes in your tiny mouth. They say
you don’t meet your milestones.
That the arm of one chromosome
had a hiccup in its copies.
But you are living. You sense. You suck
your thumb. You receive
the world, your awareness like daily
haiku. This morning’s message
caught your eye a long infant-minute
and I thought you were zoning out
on window light, or worse, seizing. I got down
to your level and saw it too:
a glimmering wind chime
against the suburbs’ winter scene, the brass
tubes lit gold by a low sun. See it,
your staring said, that star in
your iris dazzled by the dance.