“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.”