The Looking Glass

Close the porthole for artificial night
They say,
But all the world’s under the big glazed sun,
And all of Siberia is squeezed between us.

The Taiga forests are as peopled with trees
As Tokyo’s graveyards are rooted with souls.

There’s a lull in this white night –

Red hair flaming against a humid Tokyo morning
Against this heavy seething heaving monster. 

Why wouldn’t the wind come?
So we could flap
Flap, flap
Flap until we dried, 
Dried all the way,
Away the sopping nights –

Empty your glass, brother,
So that I may fill it with my tears,

We’ll fly like jet planes,
Our contrails fading faster than our flights

Published by Johanne Boulat

Johanne Boulat was born in French-speaking Switzerland, where she lives again now, but she grew up under the resplendent California sun. For 21 years she basked in the spirit of the Wilderness, which she discovered on hiking as well as literary paths. She received her Bachelor of Science in Animal Biology from the University of California, Davis in 2012 and since then has worked as a scientific field aid, a translator, a sales specialist, and a running coach. In 2018, she completed her master’s degree in English Literature at the University of Lausanne in Switzerland. She now teaches English and Science at a local elementary school and dedicates her free time to the three “R”s: Running, Reading, and Writing.

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