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Black Sheep

By E. O’Riley

Why don't we call her Isabella?
No, it's too long. Maybe Marie instead.

What name should you bestow on a bad seed,

an albatross with dead eyes? Rejected.

Even when willed, a replacement never

measures up. Anyone can tell you that . . . 

One day she will learn to play piano

("Au Clair De La Lune" -- such a clever girl)

for the blind werewolf lurking in the hall

and the silent audience on her bed. 

The real baby died at the hospital:

you're just the afterbirth they made us keep.

She stood on the stair, a bag at her feet.

A taxi arrived to take her away,

the slam of a door severing forever

the hold of those mad virulent tentacles. 

You chose your own name, her mother had sneered.

So she claimed it with repletion.

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