Written by Callan Latham – Instagram: @callanwrites
She talks about the memories
that should come back. We are not mindless,
rather sandwiched in between spaces
of mind and nothing.
The mind came before, maybe, and we
don’t know what’s next. Not the future,
with its claws and grinning mouth,
not the past, colored a soft mauve in the dusk.
She remembers the street
she bought a pretzel on, will never forget it.
We discover a fish in the pond,
with crimson splotches like writhing life.
The leaches are gone but the blood will always
stay, pulling from us like gravity stripped bare.
The purple finch, soft and
morphed with feathers, listens to us
as we talk about our yesterday fears.
I think about the garden
with the marigolds still living. Marigolds,
dyed a maroon with passed days.
The flowers in the wagon rest from the frost
over night. We are not so lucky, dreaming of
smoke that smells like what we have left behind
and squeezes like flesh between
the empty spaces.