Written by Callan Latham


A quiet stillness at dawn. I think of you now, 
not yet a beginning—a cluster of eyes on the horizon,
blinking in the dark. I awake to a slivered window. 

It stares into other homes, glittering orange 
bulbs in the half-light. It’s a new year 
and I am being pulled in three directions. 

My mother’s body is warm beside me as she stirs. 
We go out in the city, watch the locals in the rain. 
It is in our blood to speak this language, 

but we have forgotten. The city wakes slowly. 
Even in the storm, the harbor is untouched—
a mirror, shining our way to the center. 

I ache for the sea’s knowing, for your inevitability. 
The light bulbs glow again. You are a long way
from home. You don’t see me yet.

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