by Shannon Castleton
In the passenger seat she rubs her belly like a good idea, and reads billboards out loud. She is looking to name the baby. Dick's Café. St. George Inn. She thinks it's a boy she's naming, having read the paper clip dangling from a kite string over her wrist: left to right, a boy. Circling, a girl. She pats the warm fluttering, thinks my little man, my sweet idea. At this point, I am no one's idea, though it's my mother's fingers grown smooth in the thin sac. When she's pulled out onto the white-sheeted bed, she will already feel they are sad for her girl parts, will already be full of her allotted eggs. Inspecting her, Grandfather will call her good and name her after himself—also after Jerry Lee's Used Car Lot. Later she will imagine me, her first brilliant daughter. She'll close her eyes to a dream of my face, believe I love my name and my body. Why shouldn't she? She doesn't know who she's dreaming. For now I am bright arms and glimmering feet. I am little sun-dried white dresses.