To recognize is not
only to give something a name
but to give it the very name
that was waiting for it
(Rae Armantrout from FUSION)

When I was six I began to think
Jimmy was not my name or at least
not my real name; some days
I imagined I was Charles The Sailor
like Mr. Cochran who’d lived next door
or Christopher The Explorer
or Peter The Saint at the pearly gates.
Jimmy had no ring to it,
no snap of adventure, no heroics

One Sunday after church my dad let me go
with him by myself to Bridge Street Donuts.
You’ve been a sad shade lately, he said. 
what’s happened to our Smiley Jimmy?
I don’t like my name, I said. Jimmy never
discovered anything or started anything.
I wish I was Daniel or Davey or Henry.

Then he drove us to the cemetery
where our family is buried and read
to me from the modest stone above his father’s
bones: JAMES JOSEPH LALLY 1873 – 1931.
The man buried here is who you are named for.
His name is your name, Dad said. He was
my father as I am yours. If he had lived
for you to know him you would be proud
to have his name. You are a lot like him.
You’ll know his voice when you hear it.
Listen to it.