Autism Diagnosis

Dry skin wrinkles like an old shirt in the back of a truck.
Weathered, losing color. I forget to apply lotion
on my hands after the boys are sick and I’ve washed
them a million times. Zeke furrows his eyebrows, 
confused again by my requests. He loses his words
like I forget meaningless things. Close the door, 
bring me your cup I repeat for two years. 

My husband and I wonder if the lack of eye contact
is due to the pandemic. His delayed language
a masked, contact-less residue. Slow to respond, 
express himself in context—I can’t leave him alone
with a stranger. Who's to say what seeps into all 
that confusion. He whimpers into the air without 
resolve, dust you can’t catch or clean until it gathers.