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

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  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.