Burnt-Orange Dress       

slips
over  
my head
flares
down
my thin
seven-year-old
body
as I fly
on a warm
summer’s night
over a field of grass
toward    bubbles
with pink
and purple
swirls like the galaxy
then    back inside
when Mama
calls us in
for Rocket Pops
or away
from boys
playing capture
the flag
who believe
they are faster
sometimes
they catch
me sometimes not—
even if they think
they won
I get up    spin, run
as my orange dress
the sun
of my solar system
pulls    me