mud oozes between my 

ten curling toes 

that churn into the cool 

earth, shooting wet  

flecks onto my 

ankles my thighs my 

shirt that still smells of 

fabric softener 

 

my lips smack sticky-sweet, 

stained with overripe peach 

juice and itchy from the tickling 

fuzz and when the knobbled  

pit slips  

from my fingertips, I 

let it roll away into thick 

grass and I cackle  

with wild glee 

 

because I  

am six years old 

and it is an evening in july 

and the world is a ladybug 

cupped in my palm, 

content to nestle against my  

skin even when my fingers 

uncurl and she could take flight 

but she doesn’t because 

“she loves me,” I tell my 

mother, and I shudder 

with delight because it is 

true, it is true 

it is an evening in july 

and all the world is 

mine