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SCOTT
WIGGERMAN
Spelunking
into
Adolescence
the
caves
of
open
mouths, falter
against
walls, scrape
secret
caches, graze
precarious
chambers. Eyes
squeeze
blind, lips
press
like
seams. Senses
stick
in
the
dark, hours
of
sloppy
exploration and
careless
penetration. Is
there
some
drug in
the
saliva,
some
stimulant in
the
casual
trade
of
spit that
suspends
time but
heats
the
pulse? How
else
to
explain the
utter
surrender of
childhood
aversions, the
sudden
draw of
caverns’
black
breath?
Skin Then
there’s
a
lover’s
skin, the
tentative
touch
of
fingers
on
flesh like
a
bomb
squad
approaching a
mysterious
package, a
combination
of
caution
and
commotion ready
to
explode
at
your
fingertips. There’s
the
rush
to
unearth
his
geography, contour
the
soft
plains
and
rough
terrains, rolling
muscles
and
nervous
valleys; explore
his
equators,
map
his
jungles, detect
and
record
his
imperfections— the
twin
joys
of
uncovering
and
discovering. And
there’s
the
tingle
that
comes, the
shiver
of
goose
bumps charged
as
electric
particles stimulated
by
your
own
reactor, flesh
alert
as
a
watchdog, ready
to
growl
or
yowl like
the
moon
tickling
the
horizon. Marinara
|
Their
tongues
probe