by Callan Latham
I stain raspberries in the mouth. Clouds seize into sky and fill their jaws with dew. Plucking seeds from between teeth, they stay cracked and soft. A cool breeze flutters along the brick, begging to be let inside. So I beg to know you. Hands sticky with red sweetness, the juice seeps into nail, under knuckle. You mutter the tradition of dying fruit. We collect berries from beneath trees and boil them with sugar until they’re all shiny and hot. When it cools, we put the jam in glass jars and seal them shut. We place the jars on shelves in the basement where the walls smell like old laundry, cold and humming and filled with hibernating fruit.
11 photo by Gabby Estlund design by Lindey Carlson