I must have been ten or eleven
when Dad rented that pop-up camper
after my teeth were chipped
my belly overtaking my t-shirt
stretching big sister’s top
above my waist band
on the run from camper to camper
looking for friends
willing to play with a
buck-toothed
chip-toothed
pixie
who didn’t yet see the gaps.
No wonder I cried
when a rainstorm
pushed us into the backseat
pounding hammers
setting the beat
for that maraca
on the windshield
I still hear.
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