November 2020

by  Despy Boutris

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.