once met a man with seven names,
of which were his own.
called himself by one,
himself by another.
other ones were used by friends,
enemies and lovers too.
used different names,
parents yet more.
not one of these
used by him.
acknoledged them all,
alone, he was nameless.
so I learned,
having so many names—
matter the reasons, nor the significance—
what is in a name that someone uses,
they use it not for themselves?
call myself by one name,
some people call me by another.
alone, I am what I call myself.
man with seven names could no decide
name was his.
so, alone, he had none.
© 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.