A Boy Who Could See Only Purple

Through intense, lyrical images, Dean Kostos presents the early life of an intense, lyrical boy.

—

A Boy Who Could See Only Purple

From the early life of Milton H. Erickson, M.D., the father of modern
hypnotherapy, who pioneered the technique of Indirect Suggestion.

Unable to speak, I grunted, pictures raging
in mind’s mansion: Mama’s
plum­colored hair, Papa’s amethyst beard.

My parents had a farm & children.
I sat alone—couldn’t read,
eyes reversing letters.

When polio withered my legs,
Papa strapped me to a frame, knees bent
by splints. Halved cylinders trussed

my torso—still as a mushroom.
My eyes fluttered a fractured
Morse code. Instead of reading my lids’

wing­beat, our doctor called it “seizure.”
Papa built a chair­commode, harnessed
me to it. The Aubusson rug pulsed

with violent, violet roses. Patterns spiraled
into a trance: waves lured me with breath’s
vessel, past boundaries of who & where.

I floated from my rigid body, arrived
at a citadel, free.
Mama strung crystals over the window.

Ribbons of lilac fire latticed
the floor. Hours collapsed into minutes,
minutes into awe.

Family & farm hands patted my back, asked
how I was—expecting no response.
I ached to answer. Their lips

seemed to utter noise, opposed to sense.
Papa said, “You’re looking better.”
His grimace asked: When will you die?

I wished he could follow my peregrinations,
scudding past fuchsia clouds. Afraid
hypnotic sun would inflame

a stroke, my parents kept me from the window.
In my mind, I was outside: thwacking
a ball, dashing past bases, sliding

home. My chair reeled. Forcing
brainwork elsewhere, I commanded:
Move, legs. Rock, chair.

Seeing my torso shudder, Mama unbound
me. My baby sister crawled, her breath
entering my legs’ flutes.

Watching her try to stand, I pushed myself
up from the chair, tottered,
rose. My parents whispered,

caesuras unlocking their speech.
I began to understand, plunged
into intonation:

cadence, breath­swell,
color. Words recast
my mouth with indigo flames.

I spoke.

***

Dean Kostos has published several well-received poems on GMP. Read them here.

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