Ode to Camp, or: I Died in Couture and Came Back in Sequins(A Poem in Heels)

Mary Mba (Ph.D)

Darling,
I was born in a wig and reborn in rhinestones.
When the doctor slapped me, I said,
“Not the face.”

I am Camp.
Not a style,
But a resurrection.

I paint my lips with irony,
Contour my cheekbones with pastiche,
My eyeliner so sharp it cuts through heteronormativity.
I don’t cry—
I glitter.

I’m the chandelier at a funeral.
The swan dive in a cocktail dress.
I’m Bette Davis lighting a cigarette with your expectations
and exhaling a monologue that ends in thunderous applause
from ghosts who wish they were this extra.

Camp is a wink in a war zone.
A ball gown in a bunker.
It’s knowing the script, tearing it up,
and then delivering every line in a British accent
with a martini in one hand and a drama in the other.

I am Cher in a headdress.
Gaga in four looks.
RuPaul crowning queens like the Vatican crowns Popes
(but with better shoes).
I am Divine divine.

My aesthetic?
Apocalypse but make it fashion.
My gender?
Sequined disbelief.
My spirit animal?
Susan Sontag’s typewriter tapping out “Notes on ‘Camp’”
in six-inch stilettos with a smirk.

I am not real.
I am more than real.
Too much?
That’s just enough.

So let the naturalists mumble in beige.
Let the tasteful bow in their taupe blazers.
I’ll be over here—

In tulle.
On fire.
And perfectly,
ridiculously,
fabulously—undone.