Two boys in a café
talking about how much they mean to each other.
They are in the cavern of their eyes,
on another planet, underground,
Their heartbeats prance around like the voices of bats.
Inside, they’ve built a temple
to which they return
whenever they have had enough
of the big city lights, and the burn
of glassy shopfronts.
They inhabit the temple.
No. They are the temple.
The roof, the marriage of their ribcages,
the leg and arm bones the columns;
the space below filled with their loving
stretches, every day, into new dimensions.
No need for quantity; deeper than quality.
All they need is amity, loyalty, sanctity,
which are as gold as they are silent.
The temple is strong and brave.
One sees chips in the paint and mould in the wood.
The boys once hurled hot acid at the ceiling and walls
but the temple remained. It stood.
It would only fall if they ran out of blood.
The temple is alive and lit by torches
but people walk by and ignore it.
All the better for the boys.
Nobody enters, nobody knows.
At most, some peer through the frosted glass
to squint and sniff: nobody
but a cave, stuffed with treasures
picked up from a nomadic journey:
in-jokes, daisy-chains, pearls of kinship.
The boys choose the Gods and the statues of worship.
Today it’s fruit pastels, cult movies, champion boxing moves.
Stick them all over, roll out the glow-in-the-dark starry wallpaper.
Make a den in the corner with pillows and downy duvets.
The boys can be scared around other people.
They don’t like people knowing they’ve a place of hiding.
Their bodily building. The temple.
People will see us transform
from flesh and human form
into the bricks and stones
of Pandora’s palace.
Our home, majestic. Warm.
The boys lock eyes; they disappear.
All that is left is granite, sun and drought,
and a bulletproof doll-house.