Written by Callan Latham
Art by Cook Eat

She moves into light, my hands
breaking off the little creeks

that end at the quiet part of the brain,
and rush in to form tired lines
at the crease of her eye,

only to pick the berries
bleeding from the banks

and she tells me about becoming,
and that it can never be dead

until we’ve put the sand back
over the door, because
how are we human if we are not hiding

but the cage was here before we were,
its eyes glistening wet through the
ribs like the bottoms of tongues

smoothing into a body that has too many
ways to be broken