We snap them like glow sticks & dart the halves

into the water, harpooning our doppelgangers over 

& over again, but by the time the surface settles 

they’re always back & ready for another round

We wrap their prongs with old rubber bands

fished from the clay lakebed & slingshot pebbles

at passing gulls, missing every shot, pretending

to try until our weapons crumble under the tension

We swallow them whole & feel our throats stretch

open in a silent, gasping chorus, then the caesura of a

panicked gulp, muscled walls closing in, splintering the joints

& forcing the shards down, sharp & singing

We do anything but make a wish—but the bag never empties, 

so we invent new ways to crush bones until the lake swallows 

its rusted lozenge of a sun, trying our best to keep our heads

empty, to let the wind pass right on through

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Tyler Predale is a queer aspiring writer and translator from New Jersey. He studied Romance Languages & Literatures and is currently based in New York.