henry zane

          to my unborn son 

when we found out we were going to have a baby we went to the Oakvale graveyard in search of names.  it was on a hill and the road to get there was a single lane that tested your courage all the way up. 

we parked and were alone.  I was simultaneously horny and slightly afraid.  I wanted to have sex and get interrupted by zombies.              

we stepped out of the car and began walking.  my grandmother is buried here, she said.  there’s a lot of history here.  can’t you just feel it.  it’s like a slow motion wave, she said. 

it’s true.  I could feel the wave.  I could feel it coming on.  as if all souls buried there pushed a calm and subtle breeze against the living. 

she wrote down possible names on the back of a receipt.  I had purchased toilet paper, tennis balls, cantaloupe and paper clips. 

I told her I wanted the name to be tough whether it was a boy or a girl I wanted the name to take no shit from anyone. 


as long as we love it, she said, everything will be just fine. 
but sometimes love isn’t enough, I thought.  sometimes you need a cold stone name to say, fuck with me again and I’ll drag you out of here by your eye sockets.