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Issue 1, February 2008

Truth | previous next story |

Men With Good Names
Karen Schubert

I took the ice cream maker, fondu pot,
copper jello molds that were my mother's.
He took the couches embedded with
dog hair,kitchen chairs thick
with children's fingerprints. We
divided the art, mine the blueblack
ink of two girls pulling sleds,
his the large print I had put
on the credit card, so taken with
it as I passed the gallery window.
We had no rings, so I kept his name,
a good name, and that's how it is,
these men with good names that walk
through the world without them,
their children heirs to the thrown,
the women in new cities and people
asking, are you related to Tom or
the judge? and not knowing the story
of the name that came over with
the man in his only suit, his pocket
nearly empty, a few coins, a scrap
of paper with an address, and this name,
in his battered suitcase a small collection
of items that will rattle around in his
new rooms.

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