Kimberly L. Wright

Leave this campground as you found it, more or less,though hard
to do after nearly a decade. Acres of pine trees chipped and pressed
into mountains of court-mandated legalese — one copy for me, one copy for you.
An uneven moonscape, stumps jut like nubs of rotten teeth.

It takes skill not to trip over dozens of earthen mounds,
all our burials. Something canine or feline growls,
leaves clawed prints and a maimed teddy bear
bleeding tan stuffing from ripped seams. In-laws smear dust
on family portraits, tell ghost stories in the dark,
cast menacing shadows on the tent.

Clothes I’ll never again wear — sequined formal gowns
flowing maternities, boxy business suits of gray and black,
faux animal skins mother never stopped buying for me —
I throw into the campfire. It’s warm.

By Kimberly L. Wright
First published in Blood Lotus Journal