She still flinches

when a hand from on high

heads too close to her head,

like an abused undomesticated bitch

with too much oppositionally heated

bipolarity for safe freedom

outside silent medicated silos,

well intended asylums

without her sense of humor.

How would I live without her gift

of oppositional comedy?

Where yes means no, or maybe yes

or I’m not sure I grok what you say,

but I see smiling,

gratitude for time, life

mentoring me how we look to Other,

playing oppositional synergetic noticing,

then trusting functional potential

rather than swinging hand

from up,

and back at pain,

lost hope.

How would I trust without total faith in her

utterly sociopathic guilelessness?

She could tell a lie,

but why would she care enough

about what you think,

about what you smell,

about what you see, or don’t see, for that matter,

or even feel,

to bother to lie to you!?

So, when I ask her,

“Are you more happy now,

or more sad?”

and she opens her full radiant beams

up toward my hands

and lispily adds,

“More happy…what’s that smell?”

I know she would have said the same

even without this smell

I cannot quite sense,

and hope so much is not me.

To grow capacity for happiness

and brief glimpses of saner kindness,

like “Make me breakfast, please!”

without even a prompt,

and then the quiet “Thank you” gravy

as I turn my back

to wash her filthy dishes,

regenerates our polyculturing

lives of solidarity,

dancing eye-to-eye.

He, Yin son,

without capacity to language,

throws dimples on this dancing song

telling stories he learned by heart,

in shrieks and gales and waves of

rich composting laughter,

spinning wild saliva strings,

radiant Angelman joy.

Old Right hemispheric dominant

icon of ecological myth,

ego zero-balanced centric identity,

son of Universal Mediums,

breathes and beats his

well-indented teething ring,

hypnotic alchemistirring wand

drenched with passionate mindfulness.