Unidentified Fleeing Object


    A sign on a bar I frequent


    says "Toma!" To drink, or let’s.


    In this particular bar, and when


    I feel like my name isn’t enough


    I go by Thomás, an alter ego.


    The part of myself I’ve reclaimed.


    New meaning given to old words.


    My mother named me, or such is the story


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.often espoused by my father, who claimed


    that he had no say in the naming of his only son.


    It’s “a good Christian name,” I’ve been told.


    Neither of my parents were Christian. Nor am I.


    I only meditate on the insignificance of names


    and how I ended up with this one. It doesn’t feel


    like mine. Names are tools. They’re expected.


    My father stamped his name upon mine, right


    in the middle, as if to proclaim “This is my son!”


    to himself more than anyone else, with a smile,


    a wane, faltering smile, perhaps possessed


    of some foreknowledge, a premonition


    of what was to come, an admission


    of guilt, pitiable guilt, an early


    acknowledgment of what he’d done.