Deep under the porch steps
we can see the dust
rising. Flash of the boys’
white shirts, sliver
of tongues. They’re already
saying goodbye.

The night is all around us,
dew-wet and lake-black.
Whir of lacewings rustle
the shush of grass
with its gold dust. It is difficult
to remember all the things
waiting. Holy

swelling in our chests. We wonder
if this is proof of something
luminous: the secret follows us
like a mouth. For the first time
we wonder if we’ve started to want
to become the girls we’ve been
pretending to be.