when the moon allows

They had learned this long ago. When clouds suffocate the moon, laying black silks across the fields in sweeping clumps, they can easily escape the confines of their rooms.

She burrows out the white chiffon veil dancing against her window sill, feeling the slabs of wood brush her legs, the crunch of grass, pebbles, dirt beneath her dangling toes, her house bidding a brief goodbye with scrapes and nudges. She darts across the field and ends up in the tangle of brush a mile away.

She does this without anyone being able to capture even a glint of movement, without anyone sensing her body beating against air and wheat. Not even the people lingering on their porches, a late night iced tea in hand, lulled by the swings and slow conversations, suspect.

On these nights, the seduced moon, back turned to the world, drops an invitation as dreams start to seep into their bodies, and they awaken and accept and leave the blankets and fluffed pillows, slide from the house, run, and meet one another. Each day and each night, they hope and long for these nights. When one finally whispers an arrival, it is never ignored.

This brush, their thorny bed for the hour. Two girls turning to women, bound to home not by age, but by duty, blanketed in everyday hush beneath critical eyes and expectations. These two girls, pulling, tugging, holding, squeezing, soft to soft, prying, plunging, gasping. These two girls, wet and open, slaves to the moon.