by Jonathan Chan
show me your god and i’ll show you mine: cresting through darkness, wind whipping face, skin beneath the hug of cotton, rippling, billowing in the chill. between the pews of wood, knees held close, or of grass, hum and rustle blending with strum and swoon. here where nets are cast in sand, boats are left on water, light bends enough to touch the tips of a shoe, light enough to open the paths shaded by the pan of peaks, light enough to strengthen as a room takes shape, light enough to flood the mourn of falling blossoms, flood the crackle that foreshadows an erotic intelligence, flood the inverse congealing of heart, of mind.
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.