My daughter has been crowing for thirteen years,
then asking, What does a rooster say?
Some days her charms are irresistible,
and I cock-a-doodle-do like a mate
lost in a cornfield. This is wrong
according to Overcoming Autism.
I should redirect the conversation
to something in front of us,
make her touch the carpet and say, soft.
When she was born, her father
held her up and her mouth made
a perfect O, as if we had some nerve,
pulling her from that dark warmth
into fluorescent light. She scored
well on the Apgar, and without knowing,
I rejoiced in her future
all she would learn, every cloud
I could show her, who she might become.
In the park where she played
a stone frog spouted a water arc,
but rather than dart and giggle
with the other little girls
in their ruffled bottoms,
she’d squat by the drain and listen
to the dripping echo in the deep,
metallic well. Now, she’s a good swimmer,
and at the pool she ‘blends’,
until an honest boy asks, What’s wrong with her?
I explain as best I can. He disappears among the swarms
of screaming children. We count to three and go under.