WHAT'S IN A NAME SARAH WEEKS

​

I sat under a maple tree

near the Naumburg Bandshell

on a wool blanket

eating a deviled ham sandwich. 

 

“Are you Estie?” came a small voice behind me.

 

The deliberate enunciation—

a maiden question—abstracted it

into 

four 

distinct 

letters.

 

“Sometimes,” I said. “But only a little behind the knees.”

 

He handed me a bottle of Sambuca—

white feather on a length of twine dangling from its neck—

and pedaled off on an old Schwinn Hollywood.

 

I ate the other sandwich while I waited,

wishing the tree was a sycamore 

so I could hide.

 

Eventually, he arrived.

 

“Feather is and will always be a ridiculous nickname, Taran,” I said.

“If people don’t get it, it’s just…

Liza Minnelli!  Sally ist noch am Leben!”

 

          “Put down the knitting, the book and the broom,

          it's time for a holiday,

          life is a cabaret old chum,” he sang.

 

          “So my meeting ran late, but National Anisette Day 

          only comes once a year. Fail to observe at your own peril.

          The liquor store was going to close soon

          so I had them hunt you down.”

 

He poured two glasses of the licorice mistress into

a glass jar, half empty of cold water.

 

“What’s so special about the fly,” I said,

swatting at the rim of my cup,

“that it gets the verb for a name?”

 

          “Maybe it’s what’s not special enough about them.

          Joan Rivers hated flies.  She said it was disgusting 

          that they had wings and liberty, but chose to 

          set up camp in feces.”