Wild Fruit

by Callan Latham
Photo by Gabby Estlund

I stain raspberries in your 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, as 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 smooth and sweltering. When they cool,
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.