Girls Rule Summer Camp

The men have ears so wide open, we string their heads together
like summer camp bracelets. Each of us wears our crush’s name;
they all say Me. I eat my dinner at a turntable not spinning; everyone
wants to sit next to me. The men chew with their mouths closed.
When my heart breaks, there is a thunderstorm party and no one goes
outside. All of the umbrellas are padlocked shut. Everyone takes the batteries
out of their watches until I am ready to speak. When I cry over a minor
inconvenience, it is a lazy river and it is allowed to be. I fill a cooler
with fruit beer, tie one end to a raft shaped like a flamingo and the other
to a gust of glitter. I take bubbly gulps until I am tipsy and sunburnt
and playing footsie with my inner tube friends. I am proudly spilling
out of a string bikini. The men sit on the bank, don’t touch anyone.
I recite poetry and they don’t think to tell me what I meant to say. They sit
criss-cross applesauce with their eyes closed, feeding on my experience
like it is sacramental bread. I am a gospel choir that they hope does an encore.
I sit on a lawn chair and watch the season end; its beds respectfully stripped,
no comments about anyone’s body swept under the rugs, all of the credit
put back where it came from. I wave to the men and tell them
it was a good summer. They lap up my praise like pets. I speak
and the men listen.

Abby, a Denver-based poet and parent, co-founded Preposition: The Undercurrent Anthology and leads the Good Looks Asynchronous Editing Workshop. A two-time Write Bloody Jack McCarthy Book Prize finalist and three-time The Heart of It Fellow, her debut poetry book will be published by Game Over Books in 2025.