I once met a man with seven names,

None of which were his own.

He called himself by one,

And himself by another.

The other ones were used by friends,

By enemies and lovers too.

Children used different names,

And parents yet more.

But not one of these

Was used by him.

He acknoledged them all,

Responded to each.

But alone, he was nameless.

And so I learned,

That having so many names—

No matter the reasons, nor the significance—

Did nothing.

For what is in a name that someone uses,

If they use it not for themselves?

I call myself by one name,

And some people call me by another.

But alone, I am what I call myself.

The man with seven names could no decide

Which name was his.

And so, alone, he had none.

Copyright © 2015 by Marisca Pichette

Marisca Pichette is a dedicated creative writer, working on a five-book series. Raised in rural Massachusetts, she loves reading and hiking.

Shirley Gerald Ware-Publisher-Author