Caylee Gardner

The Moon on the Lake Makes Two

after Richard Siken

Forget what I’ve told you about my willingness
not to shine on my own, what you think

you know of my round face. On a clear
evening, I’m peripheral, will drag my pencil

along the ground so you look up.
In dreams I have even less say

in our togetherness. In one, you drive until
I tell you not to, and we’re both back

scattering our shoes in the road. We crawl
over the high beams—one after

the other—and into a wild brush
of balsam trees. In another, we’re headed

around a bend and barely miss
an ill-defined deer. Guilty, we spend

the rest of our lives just walking, our old,
well-sculpted panic frozen by the night. Inside,

in real life, I go upstairs and still can’t
be alone. Through the floorboards, the pool

table sounds splinter like bones across
a window pane. Something in the tremor

feels like home. I’m picking up the pieces,
I’ll write you into the story again—I have no choice.

There: I’ve made you a body of water. I’m sorry
there’s a we. I can’t take it back.

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Caylee Gardner (she/they) is a queer writer in Salt Lake City, Utah. She received her BA in English and gender studies from the University of Utah. When she’s not writing about nature, queerness and (sometimes) resilience, she enjoys exploring mountainous terrains and spending time with friends. Find them on Twitter/X at @gardner_caylee