I jump and curse at the sound of my name
Because when I was younger it was beaten into my skinny bones.

My first name became the sound of my father's fist on a wooden door,
My middle name the sound of papers crackling in a fire,
My last name the regrets of generations of men.

What's in a name
Until it has rolled off your tongue
Like the rustle of leaves in the brisk wind?

Didn't I tell you
That my garden was not to be played in?
That there is a sanction of land fenced-in
Only for me?

Don't play innocent,
I know you jumped the fence;
You tore up the flowers I had planted
In that beautiful garden, mine.

Don't act like you didn't know
That the white pickets were
To keep out children
Like yourself.

I'll never forgive you,
Even though the wind in the grass whispered your name.
Rows of poppies beckoning for you,
Claire.

I have breathed sighs the colour of your eyes;
Spoken words that felt like the worn cotton threads of your shirt;
Slid my hands across shelves sharp as the straight line of your jaw;

My fingers, stiff as steel, are colder than the way my name slides off your tongue.