What Shall He Be Called, the Bastard Who Innocently Lies Wit

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.