CHRISTIAN BUTTERFIELD
lullaby
poetry finalist in our 2020-2021 Writing Contest
“the first time ever i saw your face
i thought the sun rose in your eyes”
— Roberta Flack (1972);
sung via portable boombox in St. Mary’s Hospital.
my first sound was something gargled.
lullabies have always been wasted on me,
so my mother just wrapped me in her arms.
she was all tear-soaked wrists
and an exhausted grin.
we cried out together, clinging to a
kinship.
my third-ever sentence was “no ketchup”
simple syntax, a candied tongue.
my mother says this with a knowing grin
and i know nothing but utility.
i had spent my life as a fork sans tines,
a bent knife. language as a
battering ram.
my four hundred and eighty-sixth conversation was
an act of canonization. my mother neatly
informed me that my brain was wired differently.
there is something to be said for lullabies,
but i could only sleep wrapped up in my wires.
my mother says it’s a
sensory thing.
my two thousandth, seventy-second greeting was
the death of the author. i dedicate myself to
mastering narrative convention: an archetype,
a battered lip. my mother weeps my nonverbal
weep, tastes the explication on my breath. i think she makes
quite a lot of fuss over a well-executed greeting, over a
“hi my name’s christian and i have autism”
my three millionth and somethingth poem was
epic epiphany, tongue still stuck in third act.
my character arc: all half-solved puzzle pieces and
counted conversations, a miracle of early childhood intervention.
miracles are my reason for existence, my literary context.
i owe this tongue to all the miracles. i am only a
redemption story
my first lullaby will be dedicated to my mother.
the first time ever she saw my face,
there was nothing to redeem.
no wires to uncross. no puzzle to solve.
only tear-soaked wrists and an exhausted
grin. we cry out together, and i am nothing but
her son.
dear mom,
here is my lullaby:
“and the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
to the dark and endless skies”
— Roberta Flack (1972);
sung via tear soaked wrists and sacrifices left unsung.
our first song.
Previously published in The Aurora Review
Christian Butterfield is an 18 year old poet/essayist/totebag-enthusiast from Bowling Green, Kentucky. In 2019, he served as the National Student Poet of the Southeast, and his work has since been published/recognized by Best Teen Writing, The YoungArts Foundation and The Adroit Journal. He is the Content Director for The Farside Review and reads for EX/POST Magazine.