EVE (by Lynne Rees)

When she’s taken off her clothes, stood naked
in the garden, she still doesn’t feel quite right.
5.30 in the afternoon, the sky neighing its thunder
and the neighbours’ eyes worming over the fence.
Then the rain comes in on a wind, thick fingers
wrapping her shoulders, pooling her feet on the path.
She opens her mouth and knows that she will die
of thirst if she has to wait here. If only
she could drop the clothes she’s holding and dance
right through that gate, out of this garden.
If only the thunder could teach her how to move,
how to follow a pattern of raindrops. She sees the flick
of curtains, feels eyes scaling her body. Wet trails
of hair slither on her back. She should go in.
When he comes to the door, sees her tasting the rain,
and yells What are you doing?  the lightning is born in her.
She pulls him into the storm, starts tearing at his clothes.
He feels the shirt buttons pop, his belt unbuckle,
the sudden cool around his hips. She takes him warm,
the sky cracking above them in stormlight.
They scream until the heaviness has gone.
They may have to move.