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Equinox, Callan Latham

My god answers me in a fit of teeth. It’s almost midnight,

past the yellowing of the horizon. Grass not yet bare enough

to collect dew, neighbors turning off lights. Dreams clatter,

filling my empty spaces like small porcelain dishes. She asks me

if there are opals in my ears. I draw the curtains closed again,

leaning into the clear smoke that tastes like campfire. This morning

I broke two leaves off my violets, sparing them a lonely rot.

Listening to her talk is a tongue trying to separate from the root

of the mouth, the blurring of lights on the road at night. It hasn’t

rained yet, but I think of the city streaked with dead worms.

I fall in love with the idea of escape. I fall out of love

with having to escape. The leaves, on my desk, refuse the ants.

Her eyes, sheathed in sleep, are blue at first. I swallow the dark.


Callan Latham lives in Iowa City. When she’s not studying, she can be found taking walks, watering her growing collection of houseplants, or writing. At the moment, she is working on a novel. Her poetry has been published in places such as Electric Moon Magazine, elementia, and Santa Clara Review.

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