I’ve always loved names.
“Your name means strong,” my mom said
to both me (Megan) and my brother (Michael, after the archangel)
and I thought, we must be strong.
I have never added a name to my mental list of
future baby names, never once since I was
twelve years old, without first asking Google what it means.
Maybe it started with the library shelves of teenage dystopia
that I ripped through, which always seemed to be
filled with names that packed rebel romance into
one single smack of a syllable.
I can remember the names of badly voweled fiction characters
but have to ask actual humans
to remind me at least three times after we first meet
before their names will stick.
Oh well.

I clean the kitchen floor and think that I will
scrub away these same footprints off this
sweet patch of life for years. Lord-willing.
he’ll come home tonight and I will
make him his favorite dinner and I will
kiss him goodnight. Lord-willing.
she’ll be in kindergarten this fall and I will
teach her how to read. Lord-willing.
joy simmers over now and again and I
keep a Lord-willing there ready
to tamp down whatever it is that might just
disappoint after all
words intended to open my hands instead
tightening my grip on some kind of shield.