As Seen from Above

A grove of bamboo trees, thick in their numbers, and dark clusters of thin, hardy canes, growing in clumps, creating circular spaces between them, hollowed out by God. The bamboo sways above the girls, a circle of dirt where secrets are made. On one side, a wooden fence, high and dry, the texture of a coconut shell; the other, a thickish wall of young trees, dense enough to stay unnoticed if quiet. The leaves cast a green hue in the shadows all around them. A shandy lies beside their feet, bought at the newsagent. Half drunk on a half-drunk. Or so they tell themselves. They stand. In the quiet of the growth. Their desire closed in, and all around. The leaves shimmer, urging them on. The taste of that pomegranate lip balm, organic, and that shampoo from Australia. They bend. Down onto the dirt, the sandy brown. The bamboo canes see all. The inexperienced hands, searching for their purpose, heavy breathing, real—not fake like they will learn to do. Real and soundless. Allergies and excitement. Skin so soft, everything about them soft, though they don’t know it. Roaming the seams of American Apparel. And the bamboo sings—you are safe, you are safe, you are safe. An eyelash is eaten. A part of her now inside you. They don’t tongue like the boys, muscular and rhythmic. They kiss. Wet. More lemonade than lager. There they are on the earth as a finger finds its way. And there is pleasure, even though they are scared. Lying there in the sandy earth. Here, they are trees. Their roots find each other. Under all the weight, the mud that cases them in, they find each other. They lift off the earth. The shandy can now overturned, spilling itself, flowing. They lift off the dirt, they are sure of it. Sandals bought in Italy, dangling, friendship bracelet made of thread, dangling, as a finger turns into life itself. As a finger holds all the strength of the world. As a finger lifts them off the dirt, that Saturday afternoon in the autumn.

Listen . . . The bamboo canes are singing.