Feathers 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.