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. 

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