Thomas, Or, The Hand-Me-Down Name

Thomas. It sits there,

on the passport,

like a tiny, bald stranger.

My aunt, she said

he had a temper.

Like me. She laughed,

her casserole steaming

between us. A shared dish.

A shared failing.

I don't know him.

Thomas.

Did he just bark?

Did he rage?

Did he clench his fists,

or just go quiet,

a low thrum

beneath the surface,

a humming shame?

I stood there, stuck.

Her fork scraped.

He's yours, she meant.

This name, this temperament,

a thing I inherited,

like a chipped cup,

or a habit of doubt.

Not mine. But is it?

This quiet hum.