Krisan Murphy lives in North Carolina and writes about her childhood in Mississippi.
Prehistoric
ours is
the long dirt driveway
where the mississippi sun
beats sweat
out of my brothers and me
running, jumping, chasing
evaporates salty beads
sliding down our temples
we cool under
spreading branches
of an oak
a rusty trike, a dismantled buggy,
a red wagon
assembles into a spaceship
dreaming of the moon
I tug two astronauts
to the launch pad
red dirt
clings to our bare feet
as we work
cotton bale clouds
darken, cool, and warn us
but we three stand
in a sandy hole
waiting
lifting grimy hands
to catch the first
gift of heaven
a single drop
then
pelting, drenching, drowning rain
fills our pot with gold
hollering and dancing,
squishing mud with our toes
the storm ceases
and steam rises
from the parched earth
twigs and little hands
stir malleable clay
to form
creatures of our imagination
matted hair
dries
turns shorts orange
sitting in the puddle
at bedtime
scrubbed and fed
slipping between clean sheets
i dream
of tomorrow
when the screen door will slam
behind me
when i
go outside and play