They call her a square peg
She's my soft, simple primrose in
a garden of orchids.


She's their public joke
A helpless scapegoat caught in a
Cross-fire of the so-called sane.

And she's my pride:
A girl who makes me realize
The tangibility
poignancy
The existential quality of
Life.

But even they make allowances.
They call her beautiful.
Yes, she's that...
Fine of face with
Large, long-lashed
Lackadaisical eyes.

That's what hits them.

And I love her-
Despite the fact that she'll never
understand it.

Because she'll always be in
Her own world;
That comforts, consoles her
When the outside world hurts.

They call her an autistic.
But she's my magic child.


1984

Usha Pisharody

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-magic-child/