A full wood, wet bark

shower, the fresh drenched

trees, the leaves lush heavy,

so consequently, Stephania.

Stephania, curled finger ferns

unfurl and burst. Loose spores

string through mist and nestle.

Moss tufts rub.

Rain slapped leaves, Stephania,

spring and drip on our deep

sogged glade, our soaked sunk roots.

Me and Stephania.

In a hiding place our slick lips sore

from pressing together.

Stephania, seaweed breath,

burrs in your tangling curls,

soiled nails and knees, giggling.

Eden, Stephania. The smell of dirt.

I never want to leave the world.

Through the streaming wash

of rain, through the windows

and pale curtains, our mothers ache.

Their bedrooms flicker with blue TV.

Scent of biscuits, chimney smoke, tea.

Our fathers cup their hands

against the cold glass panes

and look out.

It’s dusk, Stephania.

No one knows where we are.