tigers in cages

there's a leopard under my stomach
and a boy above my back, feral creatures
marking my peripheries.

   everything is made of hands slipping,
   curling, gripping my thighs, of
   cold glass on my forehead,

      of two sets of bent knees and too much
      confined heat and...

there's a blue gleam from the front seat
that reveals sweat on my spine and dark
curls sticking to my shoulders.

   the moon comes and this space is crowded,
   secret, shrouded by not-quite-midnight,
   by four locked doors,    

      by one wild cat licking at my stomach,
      and one who kisses my neck.