by Katherine Parsons
The gravel bites at our bare skin
where our bodies and our hometown meet
under the first full moon of our first spring.
We are strangers here,
escaped everyone into the street.
We stay in stoning range of the house we’re running from,
no closer to the moon we’re chasing down
after a friend almost found us out.
The half-light half-hides us.
The half-light half-hides them,
which is hidden enough for us
to bring our faces close enough
that the thing we’re not doing
out of fear of being seen
is obvious.
And because we will never be alone together again,
we run into the road in pursuit of the moon,
put our faces close, let our foreheads touch.
Our shoes by the front door
anticipate an end,
when one car, then another,
will call us back into the dark.
