Now that you have traveled to the Northernmost country of our planet,
Allow me to ask you to watch the splendor display
of the northern lights on your evening skies.
I know you would advocate for the Gods,
it’s a leak of their heavenly joy you would say,
and I would gaily introduce my theory of pixies
who stumbled on their way, dripping shiny pixie dust all their way home.
Acha! from there we can take it up to
the need of gods and fantasy for an elated mind,
knowing well it reaches nowhere, let’s then speak of the rest.
How a crease of vulnerability showcases such monumental occurrence in the skies,
like you and I, our fragile selves now unprotected.
Maybe we will not be phenomenal like the lights,
but we can be awfully wondrous in our own way, hai na?
One rainy night
After everyone leaves, we walk over to the open mouthed clear space of red soil rimmed by thick neem trees and prance around like the polka-dotted red beetles beneath the browning leaves, clammed to one another in the twilight of the filtered stadium lights approaching us from around through the shades of twigs and leafy branches like desperate rays of a lonely beacon from the lighthouse trying to frame us in its own dimensions of lightness. And soon, it will drizzle looms of needle-thin silver threads pulled from the ground flashing its luster in the lightening-sending all the insects flying back to its tree homes. But, stubbornly will we stay back to adorn our clothes the redness of the soil, in the likeness of the sanctified vermillion, etching a kiss to remember forever, the suppleness of youth and the stain of love thereafter blind like the cloudy night, wild like the bare thought toasting a beginning by the time of a rainy night, You and I, by the stadium grounds, in fact trespassing some boundaries.
JGeorge (she/her) currently writes from Pondicherry. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, West Trestle Review, Lumiere Review, Literary Shanghai, Mookychick and others.