Callan Latham

Thought Experiment

In the morning, I watch over the edge. 

My arms, in shadow, look for ways 

to hunger anew. The physics of slow 

water, finding your face in the moonlight.

Listen, the garden—a simple turning, 

I am the creature crouching among the leaves. 

The part of the woman to consume; her 

straight sharp teeth, humming above

the twilight. Listen, I hunt

the mouse in the floorboards, 

white knuckle, brimming midnight; 

the truth that prefers not to speak.

Katie Farris on Callan Latham 

The language and syntax in “Thought Experiment” walks the delicate line between clarity and astonishment: for instance, in the second sentence of the piece, “The physics of slow water” surprises while producing a robust image, as does the line “her/ straight sharp teeth, humming above/ the twilight.” The final sentence of the poem, comprising nearly the last two stanzas, seems to me to be both a satisfying conclusion to the narrator’s arms looking “for ways to hunger anew” from the second sentence of the poem, as well as an almost metapoetic meditation on art, which could be called, as the author calls the mouse in the floorboards, “the truth that prefers not to speak.”

Callan Latham is a poet from the Midwest. Her work has been published in places such as Oakland Arts Review, Santa Clara Review, Sybil Journal, and others. When not writing, she can be found baking, knitting, or reading anything she can get her hands on.