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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