This poem isn’t about what the title says, of course. Even though my family went through this, I don’t actually have any memory of it; it all happened when we were quite young.

Summer Camp

It made me sneeze, but racing
Through goldenrod was too much to resist.
I would emerge blinded by the color,
And every hair on my arm would turn
To buttercup with sprinkled dust.
I’d yell, and it was a good yelling,
The sort of yell that faded into the open air,
Not gathering anger as it went. So I’d yell and yell
And other kids laughed with me,
And we ran and scattered through the goldenrod again.

All along the edge of the field,
Where the sunlight stalks met trees
With pine needles as long as our fingers, I found the raw
Makings of our summer: wood twisted like paper,
The remnants of bird nests, baby feathers
Left behind, pebbles worn smooth, tiny
Patches of moss growing on bulging roots.

I made a figure out of it all:
Withered leaves and brown mulch
And chewing gum, for now
A god, a gourd-faced grue.
It had two faces, like everything I loved.
At night it seemed to move
When flashlights threw darker shadows over it.
I expected it to talk with a creaky whisper
And tell me of its progress as it crawled
Up the legs of my bed.
It was the best person I could make.

In the morning it was silly again,
But I treasured it and the gold dust
Seeping from pores as the bus ferried us home,
Down the roads with maples and oaks
Just beginning to develop the yellow
And bronze color of fall, down the road
To greener country, past the countless
Eyes of deer and bear that I imagined
Stood behind every tree, past the road signs,
Back to the divorce and broken dishes,
As we sang B-I-N-clap-clap, going
Home-O, until on arrival my laughs
Were swallowed in the thunderous sound
Of only children clapping.