Special Education

Driving back past the playground
after leaving another meeting
to name the special needs of my nine year old boy,
I slow to spy him
bright and glaring yellow in his fat down jacket.
He is crouching, peeling pieces of bark
from a tree that the other children use for base.
He smiles slightly when they run near,
but keeps a keen search for bugs
nested and nestled beneath the snow dusted bark.
He’s always loved the busy crawlers, hidden in nooks,
multi-legged creepers I used to crush or spray
before the day he begged I spare them,
quoting from his books, telling me
not to be afraid of these creatures-
beautiful, misunderstood.
He says he wants to be a scientist
decipher the language of the spider,
teach people that they are precious—not dangerous.
I pull over to the curb,
eye on the rearview mirror,
and hurt again, to the bone,
for the loneliness of a boy
who can spin brilliant designs with the ease
of the yellow fat spiders that
grace the posts in our garden,
but can’t risk a game of tag with the boys,
fend off the assault of daily sound and motion,
escape the labels: disabled, disordered, disturbed—
stop himself from crying so easily,
being wounded so quickly.
Michael told me once that spider’s silk is stronger than steel-
they send each other messages by tapping signals on a line.
And someday, he says, thanks to him,
everyone will finally know
just what they are trying to say.

2002