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Waylon Delgado
Summer Camp
I was seven and I cried
into my mother's legs. She stood
a giant with a heart that, too,
was crying. She promised
to call on the weekends
write letter after letter
smuggle candy in the envelopes
like we were two secret agents,
my mother and I, sharing
intelligence laced in melted
chocolate bars. She bent down
and found truth in my eyes.
I found something
in hers also. I know this
because when she smiled
I knew I was safe
her laugh was a shield
I could raise when I missed her,
when I woke up at night
and stumbled through a chorus line
of sleeping, dreaming kids.
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