Another lake where there shouldn't be one

It's been a long time since we've seen you!

Linda and Ben and I wake up almost in unison,

each door's mechanisms signaling to the ones
still in their beds, and Ben is hungover,

but happy with his bowl and spoon.

Linda rubs behind her ear, runs the sink,

looks pretty and sad, the way a cup won't crack
again where you glued it. It's going to be a good day, I think.

Last night we went to the lake,

and fog and light pollution made a lane leading to the lake.

Grass like the joggers see - wet, black-green,

blue-green. The boat house glimmering
like an indoor pool. Everywhere the light
doing funny things. It turned branches heavy
with leftover rain, suspended
the way cough particles hang, if we could see them.

Remember when you said our lake is another lake

where there shouldn't be one?
According to the earth. A man-made lake.
Men raid the fishing stations early, and we were up,
still, our forearms in the water. One of us would not stop talking

about all the living horrors: spiders, scorpions, and seagulls,

rats, and cockroaches, some we were used to

and some like myths, because I haven't once seen a scorpion.

Another moth flew threw the window, and Linda wanted
me to tell you. As big as a bat. It dusted us and the room
with its scales, before we caught it in a bowl against the wall,
thumping against the plastic, harder than you'd think,
like it was trying to break down a door.
At lights off, my room glowed green
from the protection it had shed - Linda had left footprints.
The circle on the wall glowed especially bright,
like a firework or a flare, suspended above the cast-away.