and a guy who spits instead of swallows
dashing low over the fields, pink draining
slowly from the sky, shyly holding hands
after sunset – a damp ring inside my right
sized bell-bottoms signaling the fireworks
of mosquitoes, smoke, bug juice and blisters.
what does it say about me that I remember
lyrics to summer camp songs (they came
off by three-sies three-sies, grizzly bears
and chimpanzee-sies zee-sies) but not why
he seemed so handsome when I let him
spank me with a tree branch in the ditch?
children of the lord floated around with
gods-eyes and popsicle-sticks, tying knots
with red licorice whips, whispering about
a girl that started her period making out;
my name written backwards on a steamy
bathroom mirror. and no one was allowed
breakfast until after the flag was raised.