We drank from honey suckles like tea cups
and walked home with ticks tucked behind
our knees. 

So I asked you what 
we could eat if we all returned 
to the forest today. 
If there would be enough
for everyone to run away
like us with backpacks
of potato rolls and the
coiled bags of goldfish crackers.
Was it true that we could
drink creek water or would
it taste too warm and sea-foamy
like the water from the bathroom sink.
It was the sulking first week
of July
and everything was syrupy-- even
the the tops of our knees
were like sticky buns.
We took our first rest stop to wipe
our legs on the lawn of
the little church perched
on the backroad like
a gatekeeper. The building
had high cheek bones and a mouth
like an old woman. 
We were scared of it--
no one went to church on Sundays there.
The structure  was a street lamp 
in the dark oasis of corn
and wheat that swayed in a trance
of the wind.
I made duck calls from the flattest blades
of grass like our neighbor did.
You laughed and said that we couldn't eat
ducks and I told you that I knew that.
I spent the after noon collecting
the tiny red berries only
to find that neither of us knew
if they were poisonous. 
"I don't want to eat grass," you said
"It tastes too much like hair."
And we knew not to pick the corn
or the wheat because it wasn't
meant for forest people.
It was then we remembered that over
on the over side of the creek was the 
honeysuckle bushes that had the 
butterflies that acted like bullies.
They blinked their wings in your face
trying to keep the nectar to themselves.
We invited them to sit with us
in the tall grass and pretend
that it was sunset and not so dizzy
outside. The butterflies
always drank too much and fell asleep
on our sticky-bun knees.
You asked if we could live on
honeysuckle tea and I said
that that was a question for
another afternoon when it wasn't so 
hot and we weren't still running
away. Even though we walked in 
the opposite direction from home
we still always ended up there.
It was lucky because we had
split that last potato roll and 
dipped it in the nectar. You 
said I could have the whole thing
but I wanted to share it.
Our beds with the blankets
and the scraggy sheets felt like 
plastic wrap that night and we missed
the coolness of the grass.
You asked if it was possible to run away
and I told you the truth 
from my top bunk. I said I knew
it wasn't. That was when we found
the ticks behind our knees. You cried but I was 
used to it by now. The ticks
were to remind us that we get lost
when we only drink nectar and 
walk with sticky bun knees.
You told me you didn't want to leave
again and so the next
time I peeled off the ticks alone
and brought you a honeysuckle
to remind you of the church
that we were both so scared of.