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45 Sirhan Sirhan The double name, the name said twice, as if saying it once would not be enough, would not suffice, the way sweet Swedes, Norwegians named their sons, giving names like advice, Johnny Johnson, Lars Larson, Oley Olsen, each name its own silhouette, its own shadow, so they’d find their way home, so they wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t be bewildered by life, by its double-edged welter, its echo of pain, by the call of the wild, by Brandon de Wilde calling Shane, Shane, the way we cried Bobby, Bobby, thinking we could bring him back again, the way blood pooled like an aura, the horror, the horror, around his head, as if grace were a place you had to say twice, the last hammer strokes on a nail driven dead, like Paw Paw, Walla Walla, Sing Sing, or Pacino yelling Attica, Attica, for all of us to see. Sirhan Sirhan, when he closes his eyes, amen, amen, when he prays for the truth he can see, sees the single words, the words we say once: life, death, day, night, peace, home, free. ...

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