My mother said that they could name me
They who were not usually allowed extra dessert
In that household of ambitious sparseness.
My sisters agonized as they whispered in bed at night
Under the pink flowered bedspread
Listening for my father’s footsteps
He who insisted on silence
When there was important work to be done.
My sisters were perennial new students
Moving every two years for so long they never worried about making enemies
They were each other’s best friend.
But names were important
Especially in those dreaded middle of the year moves
Into increasingly wealthier elementary schools
Where their clothing and reading ability never matched their classmates’
They were usually a year behind
Trying desperately not to mind their stuttered grasp of
Dick and Jane’s antics with that silly dog Spot.
They imagined for me all that they wished for themselves.
They named me Jane, for the little girl in their readers
Who lived always in the pretty white house with freshly baked cookies.
They pictured me moving with ease in every school
Breezing through the days in the highest reading group, winner of math races,
A sturdy traveler, with the right name.
Though the Dick and Jane readers were long retired before I learned to read
My name bears witness to the unvoiced yearning
Of lonely little girls
Awaiting a deliverance
That I could not possibly provide.
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