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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.
Despy Boutris's writing has been published or is forthcoming in American Poetry Review, American Literary Review, Copper Nickel, The Journal, Colorado Review, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. She teaches at the University of Houston, works as Assistant Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast, and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review.