Mosquitoes nipped at bare ankles
small, pink swells of flesh rising in their wake.
Sweet, sick mementos.
Oozing fluid and scratched with dirty nails.
Sock-less feet in Mary Janes collecting
rocks and leaves and blister that split
and cried onto hot skin.
We felt the sting of our own sweat in our eyes and tasted the salt on our tongues.
Soaking smocked dresses and muddying their hems.
The thick August air weighed heavy on our backs.
Our parents called our names
at the space between our narrow, freckled shoulders.
We kept forward.
We three pioneers of the other side of the picket fence,
Pressing deep into the suburban wood.
