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.

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