My Real Name
Mother didn’t know
when she named me
that Wilda means
“the wild one.”
Maybe that’s why
she said, “don’t go
out of the yard,”
and was surprised
when I wandered off
across a weedy field
toward town, chilled
my toes in ripples
of the forbidden creek,
climbed to the flimsy top
of the locust tree.
By the time I went
half-continent away
to college, I was tired
of what I’d been called
as a child, chose
my new nickname,Wendy.
Honest, I didn’t know
its ancient denotation:
“the wanderer.”
Now it’s my daughters
telling me go this far
and no farther. “Surely
you didn’t climb the pyramid
at Chichen Itza.
You might have fallen
down crumbling steps.”
“No! You’re not going
to Ghana next spring!
Really, Mother!”