Friday poem

Every Friday for a year I'm posting an original poem. This is 4/52. A summer camp murder mystery sonnet.

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The Drownee

His first year,

so none of us knew him well.

He was assigned to our tribe, the Blackfeet.

We tried to help him as best we could, tell

him which older kids to avoid, which seat

is reserved for our Chief.

He never took

to our rules; I'm not sure why. On the trails he

stumbled and was always last;

he looked awkward on the softball field

and failed us badly in the track meet.

His craft shop work was careless, artless,

and his teepees sagged down.

He was a poor swimmer,

all flail and jerk;

we were the only ones

to see him drown.

His parents gave a keepsake

to each of us:

A feather, an arrow,

this unglazed cup.