I let him tug at what’s beneath
my cotton shorts right there
in the stairwell for anyone

to see. Not even noon, and here
we are mapping each other’s bodies,
the rope-tight veins like rivers

across American heartland. In another life:
we’re done with these adolescent games
of hide and seek. I’d know his name,

and he’d know mine, and morning
would reveal itself in the pattern
of oak leaves weak under the weight

of August sun. Instead, we’re mourning
how crude our limbs can be by searching
for new bodies in whatever brick-faced building

will let us in. In another life: a man I love bites
at my chest. The dew of my sweat clinging
to coarse blond hairs, the thin margin of error

his lips create from the brine of my body,
through reciting my name, in the map-making
task of twisting me with catharsis. I’d beg

for salvation if I had the words. Instead,
in this dark stairwell where no one
comes or goes, our frantic hands

get the job done. We do not
speak of tenderness. Taste it,
how our pleasure stings.