The Eden Drive-In

We do not watch the movie. We run around with the other kids, splinters slipping into our skin from the wooden playground. Built like an ark. The littles play a bible form of house: stepping onto the gangplank in even pairs, boy-girl boy-girl boy-girl. We’re too old to push kids down the slides, to take up space, so we hide and seek around the hull, giggling when we’ve found each other again. I want your back against the wood, I realize. Do you know what that means? I’m afraid to say it out loud. You are a soft bright spot against summer night. We are far enough away from your dad that for a minute, no one knows us. I don’t want to become a stranger to you. I’m not prepared to answer to the belt; I don't think I have an answer for this at all. I mean to tell you, I want your face between my hands, sanded wood of the lord around us, huddled in the part of the ship no one goes. I want to kiss you. Do you know what that means?

I want to walk into the ark girl-girl. I want god to let us float.