untitled poem by Jonathan Bessette

Born August 2nd, 2018 at 11:40:00 p.m. at my desk in our apartment, East Vancouver death, so there is room for other life;I have thought about you every night, a distant rhythm, sometimes closer, then, farther away Hummingbirds flicker in evening light, across potted plants.Breath collects in rainwater dams of grey clouds, an ocean ties itself to my earlobes, You whisper, even death has to be born Every heartbeat pounds nails into the coffin of yesterday’s me Somewhere I persist In the bath, we stretch every corner of ourselves to fill empty walls, but nighttime speaks shadows when I scream for light, saturating like suds in grout between grey tiles You blink, we overflow, forget a promise on the bathroom floor. I wash your feet because you are too weak to breathe,   Creeping through windows, wisteria stretches for our future tombstones, weaves around wet fingers, reaching for a glimmer on frosted glass. Staying, in water pooling, we would drown, I break free to outside, but doubt finds us, wind tickling follicles lazing against chain-link balcony Overlooking city lights, hours, days, months, we shared decomposition, mulch took shape Halfway through the threshold you pointed with a last breath, look! Paradoxes fell from sky,   Bio Jonathan Bessette grew up in Vancouver—the unceded and traditional territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, səl̓ilwətaɁɬ, and Sḵwx̱wú7mesh peoples, and recently completed an MFA in creative writing at the University of Guelph. Jonathan is a white settler of French, Irish, Croatian, and Red River Métis background. Understanding the intersecting voices of these histories, as well as the landscape, politics, and magic of the Pacific Northwest, are regular themes and inspirations in his writing. He’s published fiction in TAR Magazine, nonfiction in Adbusters, and poetry in The Capilano Review. Twitter: @jm_bessette Instagram: @jonathan.m.bessette