Poems
by Richard LeDue

 

Poem For My Autistic Son

 

Every time you hit your head,

my heart gets slapped in the face

like someone painstakingly praying

to a god that never answers,

 

and every bruise you give yourself

kicks me hard enough

to make me believe in a soul

because of the hurt.

 

 

 

 

 

When Bluebirds Do Their Most

 

Bach is the best

umbrella I can manage

on those rainy days,

when bluebirds

do their most to hide

and make me miss them

just enough

for me to realize

they’re still somewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

While My Dandruff Made Love to Gravity

 

The whisky was sharper than me

last night, and it was still

turning up the volume

for a headache

I just couldn’t quiet down

the next day,

but silence seemed more

like a poorly practiced

drum solo

than the solution,

so I put on some Brahms,

figuring my pain should be

at least classical.

 

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