FEATHERS, Johanne Boulat

by Johanne Boulat

I did not write the world to read,
I wrote it mad and empty,
And full of mango threads,
Red velvet, and paper airplanes too.

These were the patches of evening haze
That filtered in the mind-dug maze,
The messages I sent 
Were this and that way bent,
And not those love-letters of before
Full of ribbons curling 
The way that I had meant.

There were hinges in my creaking fears
But not once did they swing wide open,
The keys did not fit,
And the pigeon hit the window,
Now there are craters in my pillow.
Look in—
You can see all the feathered brains,
And what prickles on the surface of my pains

What appears seamless and unstitched,
Is often ragged breath of cindered bliss
(That season and its swallow was long ago amiss)

Johanne Boulat was born in French-speaking Switzerland, where she lives again now, but spent 21 of her 27 years in California. She has a bachelor’s degree in Animal Biology from the University of California, Davis, and is currently doing a masters in English literature with a specialization in translation studies at the University of Lausanne in Switzerland. She dedicates her free time to her three “r’s”: running, reading, and, of course, writing.

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About barkingsycamores 183 Articles
Barking Sycamores is a literary journal entirely edited and operated by queer neurodivergent people of color. We publish poetry, artwork, short fiction (beginning with Issue 3), creative nonfiction (beginning with Issue 8), and hybrid genre work (beginning with Issue 9) by emerging and established neurodivergent writers as well as essays on neurodiversity and literature and book reviews (beginning with Issue 10).

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