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

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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.