Written by Callan Latham – Instagram: @callanwrites
The wall moves, a corner at a time
until it is only corners and one edge.
The ghost that lives in the space between
the light switch and the door
likes to lick guests’ fingertips—the only
language it ever learned. A storm batters us
from the inside, tearing apart the wiring.
Thundercloud pries my hands open
until it can reach the lines on my palms,
unravel them like plastic falling from
the angel’s face. I never learned the language
of a hurricane, only mirrored its image.
One thing at a time, dissecting homes
with rare precision, close destruction.
My belly lay open, the opposite of an eye.
I have never reached a calm so still it tore me apart.