by Jonathan Chan
these were the gasps, plaintive, released at bedside, moonlight, next to turbines, over roads, over tea, in jungles, wrapped in mud, by snowfall, pine trees, under hot jets, alone, those rivulets of shame, accompanied, by daylight, by laughter, by yearning, by contentment, until my eyes could take it no more and the metaphors crumbled and the immanence broke us down and the blurred contours burst into vision and the breath rushed into my lungs and the water’s surface shattered and there was only the memory of desires laid at unknowable feet.
Jonathan Chan is a writer, editor, and graduate student at Yale University. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore and educated in Cambridge, England. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and creative expression. He has recently been moved by the writing of Don Mee Choi, Boey Kim Cheng, and Henri Nouwen.