The Down Syndrome doll we ordered
so our daughter will feel good about herself
arrived with the mail while we were at the lake.
She is a rag doll whose stenciled features
are all that justify her name: Dolly Down.
The accompanying booklet upsets my wife.
It says things I know enough to know
are things that should upset me—that Down Syndrome
is also called Mongolism, that adults with Down’s
are like children who never grow up.
My wife begins to draft an angry letter,
while I go to the window to watch the five boys
who’ve come to see the fifteen-year-old girl
who lives next door. They want into her house,
though no one else is home, where who knows what
will happen. But for now they commandeer the porch,
swearing and shoving, smoking and posturing,
operating largely from the reptilian portion
of their brains. There is much loud talk
of beer and tits and how each other dresses.
Upstairs, my daughter is already asleep
with her dolls, though it is hardly dusk,
but she had a busy day splashing where the waves
just touch the shore. Soon she’ll call
for a drink of water, then fall back to sleep.
Next door, louder talk of retards—friends
who aren’t hip, aren’t here—and pun-filled remarks
about one another’s bodies, everyone pretending
more sexual knowledge than he possesses,
though the girl smiles in a way that says otherwise.
My wife reads me her letter, though the rage I feel
is directed next door. Yesterday they stole
the seed from the bird feeder and just now
started to fuck with my daughter’s tricycle
until I opened the door and shouted.
Although they backed off, they laughed,
as though getting caught was, like my anger,
part of the fun. But they were pretending
more than they felt. My indignant wife
with her angry letter is happier than they are.
Carrying upstairs a glass of cold water,
I am happier than my wife, and my daughter
who will never grow up is happier still,
happier even than the fish who swim in the lake
and don’t even own clothing.