What then do they do when they do as they do?

When they play hand games and staring games

and other games at that! of such things nobody speaks.

They have been warned a thousand times over and yet…

and yet…

they each cling to each other, two cherries on a vine.

How he follows her to the garden where she walks, barefoot,

uncaring,

foot dew-dampened, slip sprinkler-wet, such relief from summer’s

heat.

How can he then not note how it clings to her every curve,

her budded breast, her narrow hips and coltish legs.

Really, this is their game, and only two can play.

She will pretend not to notice, but only for so long before

she runs.

Before she takes refuge beneath a stand of fragrant budded linden, image: t. banach

her eyes bright as lightning bugs; how they flash such signals!

She will press her back against the bark and wait pink-cheeked,

dark hair gleaming black as olive in the sun, a dark bolt of silk.

It falls in two long plaits past her dampened, humid neck, each braid tied

at both ends with an indigo- blue ribbon that he will take as some trophy.

Such proof of such pressing kiss. And all of this observed by the nanny;

she shakes her French curls in furious disapproval, as she folds

sheet after sheet wondering to herself what happens between them

when the doors close at night; when the house is dark.

How she waits for the day summer ends and he leaves.

Such relief this will bring. And such sorrows too.