“You need to pick a name that fits
someone feisty,” the ultrasound technician
told us as she waved her omniscient wand 
and tried to keep your shape in view 
for us to try to make sense of.  Your mom
already guessed, of course, that you 
would toss and turn your way through life
as you tested your borders, her patience.  
At that moment, we were just glad 
you were moving.  The last time we’d been
to an ultrasound, the news we’d gotten
was grim:  the image showed “no sign
of life or recent development.” It was as if
you knew we’d waited a year to witness
your restless, insistent “I’m here.”

Ed Granger lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where he was raised as a free-range kid with a big yard that has shaped his worldview ever since. He once worked as a sportswriter, and now writes poetry as a serious sideline while serving as half-time dad to a 10-year-old daughter whose horseback riding makes him even poorer than his non-profit 9-to-5 might suggest. His poetry has been published in Little Patuxent Review, Philadelphia Stories, Wild Violet, The Broadkill Review, and Potomac Review.

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