church drama camp happened
the summer i learned to macramé.
i’d seen the movie woodstock
so i knew about long-haired boys, liked to imagine what went on in windowless vans,
but this was church camp. we were singing joni mitchell
in the dark when cathy cracked the bathroom window, wriggled out
on our thrill-promises to cover her ass.
he was a counselor, already in college, which made us wild by association.
the next morning cathy was back to rise bleary, sour;
barefoot, she went for a smoke in the woods,
leaving behind a bunch of virgins to faithfully fill in the blanks.