Dubbed

One name
for a collection of can’ts,
of never wills and less-thans,
a singular bucket
into which they dump
the myriad ways
she comes up short.

Autism.

The rusty scuttle
whose name expands
to encompass
the collected others—
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Severe anxiety disorder.
Chronic polyuria.
Lordosis, Kyphosis.
Intellectual Disability.

Oh, I’ve made peace
with all the labels,
pocketed them, even,
as keys to the kingdom
of Getting Services.

It’s just behind
that big familiar bucket
the real of our story is told,

told and retold
at home, in the car,
on our daily walks,
when I sing her awake,
the telling and retelling
woven into all our routines.

Her future is unknown.
Worry for her safety
looms large,
and for that alone,
this wish to stay alive
as long as she,
well past my allotted time.

Yet
sure as sunrise,
deep as canyon,
boundless as evening sky
lives certitude—
my daughter knows

her names:
Love.
Loved.
Beloved.
She Who Hears Colors in Songs.

And her other names,
also true,
which she may or may not
recognize—

Patience Coach.
Systemizer Extraordinaire.
Incognizant Teacher
of the Core Curriculum
of the Heart.

–Melinda Coppola

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