The dirt settled in my hand the same as sugar.
I had to know the taste of it.
On the playground after school waiting 
for ma to come pick me up.
I dug in the dirt, enjoying the feel of sand running over my hands.
I buried them like secrets or gold 
and avoided touching my eyes.

I let caterpillars walk across my fingers.
I liked how their entire body was a furry green mustache.
And how they would make a home 
for themselves
swing from a tree 
and come out ready to fly. Full of color.
Blue ones would sleep in my road.

Swing-sets put feathers in my back.
But they’d always fall out when I jumped off.
And I’d always end up back on the ground.
With dirty knees, blinking at the sky.

Fear of a bee sting kept me from climbing trees.
I’d always remember ma getting stung that one time.
Her foot got really big and she breathed faster than usual.
The buzzing got stuck in my ears.
But I’d pick at the leaves once they’d fallen.
I liked tearing them apart at the veins. 
How it sounds like paper.

Ma would come and I’d tell her about my day.
I’d teach her how to spell M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I
and listen to country music on the radio
for a bit 
then turn it to rock ‘n roll.
I’d get home and pet my dog, he’d run at me with mud on his paws.
They called him Cody, I called him Good Boy.
He licked my hands like they were sweet. 

While Ma and Nannie cooked supper
I’d sit on the couch
drinking a cup of chocolate milk,
always warm, 
and wonder why dirt doesn’t taste like that.