Tag Archives: naked



My boots were muddy
from our walk in the woods
and my hands were cold
on that February afternoon
bright with cumulus clouds
demanding their share of the sky
and below their gaze
we stood face to face
with bashful smiles
and you took my hands
in yours and refused to let me
burrow under your layers
to get to your warm belly
which was beginning to laugh
at how good it was
to be alive in that moment
and then you kissed me
and drove me to your house
where you made a real fire
and together we made one too
and the weight of nothing but you
was upon me and I have never
been so naked or felt so clean.







Painting by A.J. Casson, “Algoma” 1929



I know why
there are
so many words
for the act
of intercourse:
getting it on
making whoopee—
all these words
and phrases
so that
the holy of holies—
Making Love
can never truly
be hijacked
for use
in any bed
or on any blanket
that doesn’t
two people
who are naked
down to their





Photograph by Imogen Cunningham “Two Callas,” 1929

Inside the Cave

With you,
I want to go cave-deep
without an artificial light.
Our eyes would become useless
in a darkness that required touch.
I just want to rest my voice
for a little while, and listen to yours—
I want you to tell me everything
you’d like to be known—
what fulfills and diminishes you,
where your joy is born
and how you live with those regrets
I know you’ve tucked away.
I just want to see you clearly—
illuminated by a naked honesty.
I want to crawl on my hands
and knees into your dark corridors
where you bury your fears
and keep hidden your daydreams—
those fragile stalagmites begging
to be left intact, untouched.
I only want to admire you a little longer
before my eyes must open
onto the surface of a world
I inhabit without you.



It would do no good
to ask you nicely
to stop bothering me
with your good manners
and your white teeth
shining from your smile.

I wish you would go away
and dial down the charm
of your vulnerabilities.

You keep showing up
on the newsstands and
and in the bookstores
and onstage in your
cowboy boots and purple tie.

That goddamned purple tie.

I won’t speak to you.
Even if you find me
in the library where whispers
could carry secrets
from our mouths to our ears
I wouldn’t speak to you.

It does no good
to run from you.
However fast I’m able to go
or how dark the room gets
when I turn off the light
I see you.

No matter how naked
my lover has stripped me
it’s you who move inside me.


DeMaris Gaunt


To say that nothing happened
is true—if by nothing you mean
laying down naked
or kissing or holding hands.
We didn’t lay down naked
or kiss or hold hands—
but what about the walk we took
around the lake
not far from the party?
The dirt trail was shadowed with pines,
tall and indifferent to the way
our eyes fell into shyness as we spoke.
So no.  Nothing happened
that would be a betrayal
or a crime against your trust
even though we briefly touched
when he helped me cross a log
that bridged a glasswater creek
so we could examine the full moon
from a treeless clearing.
But we did feel the razor wire
of restraint as we stood, shivering
and silent in the field of possibilities
where he didn’t put his lips to mine
even though I fear I might have let him
if he hadn’t reminded me
with sensible regret
that we both have breakable hearts
waiting back home—
trusting that nothing would happen
even though we wanted it to.