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Not every woman’s dream 
 	of procreation 

can be fulfilled;

not every woman dreams
	of procreation, 

her body thrilled.

But loved and lovers’ inclinations – 
	recreation
not 	re-creation – 
cannot, will not be stilled.

until

one day

intervention
bypassed her – 

she –  unplanned –  filled
her womb with him – 

left herself swelled, ahh – 
	SWOLLEN
swooned with him
inside her womb within

where unnamed seed
became
a named existence: But what?
	CHARLES WALLACE
	for example
from L’Engle’s Wrinkle?
	DAVID for a King
or Copper field?
	JOHN for having been begotten
DON, but not forgotten?
	BILL, for Will that Shakespeare geek?
or anything from A      to        ZEKE?

AHHH, “But what’s in a name,”
said Juliet to her Romeo, 
as they wooed before they wed, 
then lived too fast, a mortal blow
by Fate, so Willy said.

But HE and SHE should have a say,
together name the child
meaningful – not wild –
a name for life
from birth through final day.

SHE lay alone by night
		and more alone by day
			since “Daddy” went away;
		she wouldn’t play
his childish show of might

as in: Stay?  I might!
Pregnant?
Good Night!

He left with stormy words
and even louder silence
whose echoes shake the very walls
within where 
whatever-his-name-will-be
is growing
no one knowing
what to call him yet.
No names are set.

Twelve weeks are gone
		somewhere
and Baby what’s-his-name
still asking (in his silent way)
“What’s my name, Mommy?
Don’t you have a clue?
  I need a name, my Mommy, dear.
It’s up to me and you 
since Daddy’s gone, I hear,”

	She  heard his voice 
through pumping 
of his little heart
with hers
offering his private choice
a conversation of love
two ways instead of three,
the father gone 
and he inside, said she.

The trochee beat, TRO chee, TRO chee
kept repeating
kept repeating
kept repeating
till the trochee names appeared
by all the saints with Michael in the lead,
her father smiling, his name upon her seed.

Today she lies contemplative
no heartbeat more than hers – inside – 
no breath than hers to breathe the same – 
not since the night the child died
before the coming of the morn – 
the dawn of day he should be born – 
and none on whom to cast the blame.

A quiet muse just pens the words
the rhythm of the tone that girds
the spirit of sweet Michael’s name.
In life or death he is the same:
before he lived, his life was done
though lives he still, her darling son,
for evermore in memory
in poetry eternally.
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