i'm jealous of poets who use real people's names in their poems

my "you" is a pie crust & sometimes
your body that day when we were both pigeons. 
do not try to tell me the truth is easy. 
sometimes when i say "father" i mean
"lover." sometimes when i say "stop sign"
i mean "crush." but every time i say "broom"
i mean "father." he held it over my head
& then said, "i'm so sorry." that was more
than i meant to say. i prefer to think 
of us as sting rays at the aquarium. i prefer
to pretend we are a colony of clovers just trying to
talk to the sun enough to survive to the next day.
under foot. under hoof. the metaphor 
is a place you go when the world has
too much to say. i used to name you 
in my poetry. i used to say [                  ]
as if we were gods. you loved to claim me.
i felt like earth. like soil. you made me swallow
peach pits & wept when there was no
apricot tree for you to sit beneath.
i am talking about admitting to 
how much i loved the honeysuckle
that grew along the banks of the creek.
but i'm talking about you & never the honeysuckle.
tell me you remember yourself 
in my metaphor? i want to know
you felt yourself become a bite of nectar too.
then, my "you" is a dart board.
is myself. looking down a street of stained glass.
come & get me. come & get me.
i want everything that you have.