Camp

The boys from the canoeing course
are passing by the tents;
air all dust and sagebrush burn,
sunscreen salt, a glutting pulse of bugs

Glare on a freckled collarbone
spots like ticks and constellations

muddied khaki uniforms
hanging over shoulders

I’m standing still
like when mom turns
and whispers in the kitchen’s corner

as if the phone still has a cord
or like the gesture magnifies
the monstrous shame of quiet words

shame like stagnant pond water
that glimmers on a goosebumped chest

About the Author

Preston Waddoups comes from northern Utah and currently lives in Austria. Outside of poetry, his interests include modernism, mountaineering, and bad meat analogs. Substack.com/@pwaddou