We keep what’s between us a secret.
I’m supposed to be at your house
and you’re supposed to be at mine,
but, really, we lie in the center of the wheat
where no one can find us, make homes
of each other’s mouth: your sharp thighs
shearing mine, the seawater taste of skin,
lost in lungsounds, two bodies begging
for collision, lips rimmed with rum, my face
in your neck. We lie here until dawn breaks
us apart, when you head one direction
and I the other, brushing the grass
from our knees, turning back
into girls who swallow their hunger.
image: Dorothy Chan