Written by Callan Latham

I see them, their mouths open. 
They’re on the prong of a fork, teeth jagged 

like glass. I keep them in the mudroom 
at the tip of my tongue, spew them out 

with new clothes and a good hat. They prepare 
breakfast between 10am and the shadows.

I color them pink and orange and sometimes 
yellow to fit the new tulips on the side of the road. 

They unfold like the softness around an egg, 
then boiled to hardness to mimic the shell. 

I reach into me and I’ve seen the cut, 
pressing velvet onto my fingers like a gag 

to keep them all quiet. I see them in jars. 
They are translucent, wishing on my skin 

like dandelion whiskers, infinitely dead. 
I gather my pain from the eclipse 

in the ground, slicing open
a rebirth never again repeated. 

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