Misha

His hands 
grasped the chilled metal
wrungs of a ladder to the 
December sky. 
The telephone pole
swaying with his weight
and the wind's cries to 
put him down gently. 


His legs shook with climbing
the need to take flight from
up high, a better chance
to catch the current.


The news vans came before
the fire department. Their satellites 
trained on him, their hair never moving
in the wind. The lower-thirds in calm blue
read "Autistic Boy Climbs TV Tower".
It was not a "tune in at 11" story,
our lives never were.


The little bluebird was 
spreading his wings today,
a splash of springtime against
the newfound cold and oncoming
snow storm. The clouds built above his 
lofty head, a palace he was trying to
find.


Across the seas a boy
once had flown with waxen 
wings over the farmers and waves
and sirens, nothing changing
save for his melting feathers.
His father watching the crumpled
form fall into the surf.


Before the ascent he'd 
taken his pills and eaten
a sandwich, put on his socks
by himself. Mittens left
drying on the radiator. 


He knew he could fly,
it was in his hollow bones
to get up up and out of here,
we knew he wouldn't stay
for too long. 


But my mother stood
and stared, prayer on her lips,
adorning her hands with beads.


I licked my lips against the wind
to see the small form still
worming its way up the vertical.


The snow fell fat and wet
sooner than predicted,
first snow of the season
catching on his long eyelashes
and blonde hair,
the little Russian boy
used to this cold.


Found by a dumpster
in the middle of winter
in St. Petersburg,
my mother brought him
home and unwrapped him
before us like 
Christmas. 


With his eyes trained
on something 
not seen by cameras
or policemen,
he took a flying leap
and was gone.