Poetry
Dad Called It Camp
by Aaron Caycedo-KimuraTule LakeJerome Arkansasthe Santa Anita Racetrack
but to me as a boycamp meanta green pup tent
blue-and-white water jugColeman gas stovepacked
in the backof our Ford Falcon wagonMom Dad Mari me
swaddled togethertwo sleeping bagswarm even in rain
Mari with tight gripat each endof a stick
gill-kebobbingfive silvery fishDad caught in the lake
he said he learnedto cook in campperfected judo throws
in brother Mits’s clubchased brother Frankwith a garter snake
sounded likea long vacationmy mother got sick and died
in campthe only sad thing he saidno mention
of barbed wireguard towerscold wind or hot dust
blowing through rowsand rowsand rows of barracks
