That Summer


She’s about your age you guess, 
leaning over a triple sink, 
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt, 
elbow-deep in soapy water 
washing ninety-three soup bowls 
(she counts, you learn) in the camp kitchen 
when you deliver a load of maple firewood 
in Pop’s wheezer Chevy truck. 
She’s one of the camp kids, city kids, 
they make them wash dishes as punishment
but what could she do wrong?
Her hair is a swirl on top 
like black soft-serve ice cream 
with one lock loose over the forehead. 
Cheeks shiny. 
She reaches in rubber gloves for a can 
of Comet cleanser on a shelf over the sink 
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware) 
when she sees you and tries to push 
the straggle of hair from her face  
leaving little bubbles among the freckles. 
She smiles. 
Her teeth are straighter than yours. 
Sparkle eyes, green, and she says, 
“You want a potato chip?” 
How it begins.