My stepbrother and I played hide-and-seek naked after our parents
had gone to sleep. Our skin drank air as we ran room-
to-room, transparent daffodils. Freedom in bareness,
in the folds of our undeveloped bodies uninhibited, blooming
stamen. Once they woke up to find us nude on the floor,
six-year-olds examining each other in inquiry. My mother's
still-drunk-slurs, Disgraceful, like aphid secretions forming
mildew on our petals. The next day they smothered
our roots and pruned us. Two boys can't be naked together.
Are you gay? A few years later I would tell mom I might
be while driving from Indianapolis to Chicago. Ether-
words burning her ears, though she didn't put up a fight.
When I was sixteen, mom passed out drunk, naked on the floor,
I carried her to bed that night, keeping quiet when I shut the door.
Jeremy Flick is native of Indianapolis, IN. He currently holds a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from Ball State University and is a MFA candidate at the University of Kentucky. Jeremy's poetry has been published in The Birds We Piled Loosely, The Broken Plate, and Pidgeonholes. He is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Poetry Wolf Press. His website is: jeremyaflick.com