It’s gruelling to be wanted – the desirer’s eyes
all over you, his lips mouthing your name
like a benediction. His love is a prison, or a room
with flocked wallpaper where a mad aunt sleeps,
her dreams fettered by demons.
The desirer carves your name in trees and walls,
letters trapped in love hearts pierced
by feathered arrows. You no longer recognise it
or come when called. You never owned it,
only a name, shared with strangers
pressed into those thin White Pages,
like Frank and Bill and Jack – manly names
that pack a punch, American names
with ten-gallon hats and loaded guns.
