The Right Word for Sex
Is there an accurate name for what my body
does to your body—or yours to mine? Think
echolocation, think radar, the time it takes the ping
telling me how far away you are
and how deep I must go to bring you here.
Think of a hand knocking on a wall or door,
asking all the time, You there? You there?
waiting to hear back, It’s me, let me in, because
we say we come as if we’d been away,
were waiting approval from some council
on the ecstatic, allowing us to meet,
all hush and whisper, voicing rites to a secret society,
its consummate ceremony in which we arrive together.
Read more of Michael T. Young’s poetry.
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Photo by Bryan Brenneman/Flickr