indoors, we are never naked

in my childhood bedroom a cavern 
of blankets 

              every quilt patch a window 
to a boy i cannot open

my naked body a method 
of sanding the stone of fabric

       i’ve never found a cicada
in the wild           the exoskeleton of           solitude 

they drape over vibration
do the males know they sing 

not to females but to each
other          in a hidden promenade 

of wood where their plumage rests
secretes a fluid as if to say

i will remain here 
in the sweat of my own
pining          i attempt to define what i know
of pleasure though i’ve buried 

myself in every adjective 
of skin        o boy          sing

our darkness where we cool ourselves
where else can i find you

       where else      do caves grow
other than the mouth?

By Liam Strong

%d bloggers like this: