and if i wasn’t moving, i was dead, dry fibres stretched down my throat
and all was green, tall, shuddering sawblade green manipulated
by a dilating scope. weather was suspended out of sense but in every
inch of my creaking skin, smoking fingernails. a word like thrown
seemed to twitch-breathe ten feet before me. i asked for quiet
unlike ringing. counted bones, frenetic sub-divisions of bones,
waiting for it. i stretched a look to you once, seeming simple.
looked again and it was like pulling the waterlogged shadow
from beneath the boat. all slack weight. your hinging mouth
hurt me then, not knowing it could, that throbbing pate
of black. expression coiled in matter-of-factness,
Published online September 01 2012.
Jessie Jones is a writer, editor and graduate of the University of Victoria’s Creative Writing program. She continues to live and work in Victoria, British Columbia.