for Fred D’Aguiar
Muhammad Ali had to beat the clay
out of Ernie Terrell, refusing
to move in for the kill until the big man
would acknowledge his new nam,
nomo, his self-proclaimed identity,
taunting him between volleys of swift jabs,
“What’s my name? What’s My name?”
Poor Ernie never forgot.
For me, pale heavyweight,
too-much-punch-drunk maybe,
slow to learn, reluctant to change,
it’s Fred D’Aguiar
(he rhymes it with guitar, not jaguar),
who haunts and taunts my memories.
I’m introducing him to a crowd
(not Madison Square Garden, but all the same)
by the name I’d heard, inferred,
but not from him. He didn’t know himself!
and my tie-tongue just wouldn’t say
D’Aguiar (rhymed with guitar).
So now, whenever our paths should cross
he baits me, berates me,
“Hey, Big Boy. What’s my name?”