Camp Empathy

by Tim Kahl

We named the dream of animals in hives and I was not

the man I had become when I returned from Camp

Empathy. The days and nights set against the reading of

newspapers and foreign periodicals. I developed a rash

certain I was enclosed in my very own suffering.

I remembered detente, Idi Amin, the blood of both Kennedys

which smelled like newsprint. I brought my wonder with

me on our walks together. The early afternoon sun pierced

the forest canopy and left patches of light on the ground

that looked like foreign countries. Each of us measured

the shadows we stepped into. The sun at dusk changed

the shape of the light patches. The edges became blurry.

At night we built a fire and continued with our reading.

We called the press the enforcer class. We had our

disagreements. We found every outlook to be another

helpless context. We were not there. This was the limit

of our experience. We discovered New York had never

learned humility, but we could not act until the images

were released.

We were hidden away somewhere in America called

Camp Empathy. And in choosing sides there were those

who believed a televised Auschwitz could not have

happened and those who thought one learns to live

with spectacles the way one learns to live with wrinkles.

No one's cage is clean in the post-simian amphitheatre.

We named the dream of animals in hives The Glass and

Wire Apiary. Each day began with the tiniest of voices.

They grew larger, but we were still learning by rote. On the

walks we took together, the sun lit up the paths we were

to follow. We got lost for different reasons. We were from

different generations. The longest days were meant for

travel, and, eventually we found Camp Empathy again,

before night fell. We followed a trail of shiny objects on

the leafy ground, things we were certain we could faithfully

set type with.