last ditch

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,

its blackness.

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.