Poetry / Mk Smith Despres

:: Camp ::

	
I refresh the camp registration screen seven times 
between 7:59 and 8 am. This is my life now. When 
the box goes green, I’m hot out the gate. Session, 
name, address, guardians, school, saved payment 
method. Fuck yes. By 8:05, she’s set. I used to 
 
do this for concert tickets. Before that, I waited 
in line, cash in pocket. Before that, I walked 
to the park down the street, made my way 
to the picnic tables where kids in neon camp tees 
made bracelets. Pretended like I was just curious, 
 
just saying hi, until Amanda whisper-waved me 
over, as if sitting close enough to her would make 
me invisible to the lip-glossed, ponytailed teens 
in charge. I never stayed long enough to learn 
the box knot, always left before lunch. Outlaw 
 
in plain sight, I sat straight and did the bit where 
I belonged. One time, Chrissy couldn’t take it. 
I made a bracelet. I made Amanda laugh. I made 
my eyebrows dance at two counselors flirting. 
Chrissy’s hand flew up as if it weren’t July but I 
 
leaned fast across the table, whisper-warned her 
you better shut the fuck up you fucking baby and 
Amanda cackled into her palm and I stood up 
because I was about to leave anyway. Walked home 
slow. Pet the wet noses of other people’s dogs 
 
though chain link fence. Sang quiet. Then loud. 
Sang myself into a different summer, a bigger 
story, a farther place where I was alone because 
I left on purpose. 

From the writer

:: Account ::

I am steeped in child­hoods. I am a par­ent. I am an ele­men­tary school teacher. I am a children’s book author. And so per­haps it is not sur­pris­ing that childhood—imagined, observed, and remembered—also often makes its way into my poet­ry. The poems in this sub­mis­sion deal most­ly with my and my kids’ child­hoods. In some, the child­hoods are exclu­sive of one anoth­er. In oth­ers, my own child­hood or even adult­hood is clar­i­fied through my role as a par­ent bear­ing wit­ness to my kids’ expe­ri­ences. Being a kid is a very big thing. The enor­mi­ty of that heartache, that love, and that won­der is the thing that makes us. Grow­ing up is a strange and often ter­ri­ble thing. I don’t real­ly under­stand grownups who choose to live and work sur­round­ed only by oth­er grownups. Instead, I high­ly rec­om­mend a liv­ing that allows con­stant access to child­hood. Even the hard parts. 

Mk Smith Despres writes, teach­es, and makes art in west­ern Mass­a­chu­setts. Their poems appear or are forth­com­ing in  Frozen Sea, Hunger Moun­tain, Radar, Sala­man­der, South­ern Human­i­ties Review, and else­where. They also write­books for kids. Their pic­ture book,  Night Song, was one of Bank Street’s Best Children’s Books of the Year.