Written by Callan Latham
Art by Haw Han Lee


The light in the eyes; twin bowls of water,
wet petals hanging between a reality and

an end. Their bodies: not bodies, until they are—
until I try to remember that day in the rain.

I hold a stone in my hand, blue staring back
at me. Paint folds into the tongue, cypress

trees bending against a thunderstorm sky.
The light in the mouth, the way you try to

climb a mountain with one hand behind
your back. You pull over to the next town

and buy a carton of eggs. Just to smash
them on the side of the highway. The yolks

run like sunset down the asphalt.