Interlochen, Michigan

Interlochen, Michigan

There are stars, a lake, shining fish
in the water. In the reeds along the shore,
frogs are sweetly beeping, all around, all night.

I am the camp counselor making out
on the dock with the skinniest lifeguard;
I am sneaking out to meet him, skittering

through the administration building in my nightgown
and nobody sees me; I am the princess
of the wishing well, Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

Days, doves hootie-hoo in the pines.
I walk with that lifeguard through the deep woods
to a place where ten years ago a tornado

lay all the trees down flat
and stirred them like scattered matches.
Brambles loop the logs

like Victorian rolling hoops: there raspberries
swell red and tangy, sun-warmed.
Brightness colors our hands.

Have I ever been so happy? In the staff room,
we put our laundry in the same washing machine.
My underwear, swirling around with his underwear.

It is too much. In August I am a girl again
alone by a stream in the tornado zone,
watching damselflies struggle

on the quivering surface.
Again and again they connect,
and trout pluck them from between yellow lilies.

Moreover, it’s hot, and the air is fetid
with too much pollen. I am learning
to speak Spanish now for a camper from Venezuela;

she is far from home and wants to throw up.
The other girls stare as she sobs in the bottom
of her sleeping bag. I kneel beside her,

rub the puffy lump in slow circles.
Quiero vomitar, she says. Quiero mi mamá.


Amanda Williamsen

Midwestern Gothic, 2014