Lesotho, in the evening dew

We faked trust
sitting on the grass,
dew, and your hand, creeping up my leg,
as your braces clashed with my teeth.

It was one kiss.

If I could return
to the garden,
with the shapes of hundreds of blades of grass,
imprinted in my palm,
covered by yours

I would let you kiss me again
and find faith.