I want to confess to his open eyes. I lay on his chest, on his single bed. He is a benevolent nothing, comme un moine. He listens without pressing. He does without doing. I lay with my deliberations and thought-circles, my loops, my over-analysises pinned down, swirling, and building at the dam in my throat. Nate's steady open gaze.
I'm-ashamed-of-the-person-I-give-you-it's-a-husk-of-myself. But I don't say that; you wouldn't have understood 'husk'.
"Je reconnais en moi les gestes obséquieux et réticents, les brusques scrupules d'une soul in hiding. Shame. It's me and it's not me." A husk of myself.
I rest my chin on the give of his belly. We take a walk through his woods later. A plot of falling trees, of mushrooms and tentative greens. This is our early spring, the brown silence.
Our palms sweat together.
published in Ottawa by above/ground press
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Mayan Godmaire has always been enchanted. By words, by spells, and by the uniqueness of life. They see words as a subtle art and crafts them to create distinctive and subtle atmospheres. They have participated in several of Dawson College’s publications as an editor. Their first published story “And Church Lay Silent” can be found in Dawson’s Creations Journal. Mayan began writing fantasy stories when they were eleven and the creative output has never ceased. If they could shape the world to their will, the earth would be a cross between Pirates of the Carribean and Lord of the Rings.
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