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.