Ethan
is the name
my wife proposed
had our child
been a boy, a circumstance
our daughter pieces
together using the biologics
of probability and possibility.
She wears the name bodiless
under her blanket robe, dresses
herself in fantasy school dynamics:
lunch table nuance, the twinges
of sports and Scouts, undercurrents
of inequality during craft time and roleplay. Life
as male. She feigns hostility
when we reveal her best friend
Emma could have been an Emmett,
might be
in some alternate
universe where
my wife
who swears
she’s coming
back male
next time anyway
really is;
gender norms
reshuffled.
Ruffled by this multiverse talk
Not-Ethan
stormsaway
from dinner, reconvenes
to her living
room chess
game, grateful
her queen
is the most powerful
piece in play.
