I’ve never gone camping & I’ve definitely never gone
But I can imagine it.
I would not dress for the occasion. I’d
flatter the wind with a strapless gown and ringed
fingers. I’d forget a water bottle and drink shamelessly
from a stream. I might envision myself at a ball,
I might envision myself as the main event.
I would ask the world to dance with me,
sheepishly at first but then with a wink. I’d feel
cold, I know, goosebumps prickling across my skin
and transforming me lizardlike. Nevertheless, she’d
say yes. She’d say yes and I’d twirl with such
gumption that my body would forget to shiver.
I think about Mitski’s “Your Best American Girl”
video, sometimes. How she kissed her own hand
more voraciously than any kiss I’ve seen
in any romance movie. How her own body was
new, devourable. Her own body was
something she wanted to devour.
When you break off the leaf of
a succulent, when you squeeze that leaf,
water fights its way out. The same
water you fed it, lovingly, back in your palms.
If someone were to cut me open and squeeze me,
perhaps ten little girls dreaming of love would fall out.
To pitch a tent is a marvelous achievement but
when packing it up, nothing fits right.
It takes a heart shaped like an octopus to
cradle the clunking tent, walk without
water and race down the hill and into
your own arms.