Bobby Elliott

When he asks about names

for our second, I know better

than to share but share

anyway — I give him

Saul, the latest addition

to the longlist, a name I heard

on the radio, driving to work, 

surprised we hadn't 

thought of it already,

a name that makes my father

wince like he’s just

watched my first born

press his wet finger

into an outlet. 

But that's a Jewish name

he says with that look

he used to shoot

my mother when he wanted her

to stop breathing.

How about Adam?

The joke lost

on him as Jamie

calls for me

from the yard, 

rain boots dotted

with dinosaurs

and dew, and a worm

he's severed

doubles in the dirt.

How about

go fuck yourself?

I want to say

before breaking

his nose and walking out

but don't. I get up

and leave him on the couch

he still thinks we’ll share

one day when he’s too old

and too broke to live

on his own

and we have no choice

but to let him in.