Josiah Nelson

POETRY

Garden

For now you are sturdy
bones, but in time
the chasm will grow
in your chest and water
will run through it. Soil
will slip between the fingers
of your ribs. A worm
will make its home
of you; a green stem
will sprout. You will rest
many nights holding
your tongue beneath
the crescent moon.
Your life will collapse
into the darkness of itself.
And then: an unfurling
will occur inside of you
and you will spot the light
of one south star
tasting your first words
of nectar and bloom.

After Seeing the Bell-Ringer from My Hometown Parish

I want to weep because I have not seen
that nave for years, but can still taste
the light swirling forth from the cup and into my

sorrow. Because my sense of self
expands in the absence of electricity
sizzling off every human body

that needs touch, so much I forget
to check the bloom of tulips on my walk
home, or hear the swallow tuning itself

to June. Because when I sat down
he said he wouldn’t have recognized me,
but thanks me three times for coming over

to create this sacred space. Because the darkness
has a way of accumulating in increments
and I forget about the sparks: the orange

hue of the leaves in the evening, the fizz
of golden light raining on the river, or
the summer sun that shows its amber wounds

for as long as it can bear. Because my life
was once synonymous with love
for a few moments in the morning

when the light shot through the pink and green
glass and glowed on my lonely skin. Because
before I go, he hugs me and whispers,

In case you haven’t been held in a while.

Jonathan Eats Honey

You wanted to
taste every avenue
of his vision,

so you dipped fingers
into honeycomb
and pressed them

between lips—felt
slight balletic
movement spinning

your soul.
A sweetness beyond
the reach of your

father’s oath. But how
could you have heard
amidst the buzzing

flies in those
woods—hidden
from the sun,

singing with the lilt
of wind? And who
could deny

what brought light
into your hungry
eyes? Your father

looked with sorrow
on your glowing
face and offered

his life in your place,
but you: had you not
already told him,

if God let this nectar
pass from your lips,
you knew what it was to die.

Josiah Nelson holds an MFA from the University of Saskatchewan, where he teaches creative writing. His work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Queen’s Quarterly, Hunger Mountain, Palette Poetry, U.S. Catholic, and the Rumpus, among others. He placed third in Fractured Lit’s “Monsters, Mystery, and Mayhem” contest and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He lives in Saskatoon.

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Artwork: Vanitas Still Life by Herman Henstenburgh. Public Domain.