My dragonflies don't carry stones.
They are weak enough to know how the
Blue rivulets of sky torn under an
Eagle's flight, ribbon perfectly on a mad
Poet's pen, how the ink breaks one
With its metal wings, and still, fly.
White flowers bloom and wither and bloom
Again on my bosom, a hibiscus in
My hair, the wild forest on my skin.
My suns are cut out of them with
Black knives, and burned in their
Own fire, the tepid moon painted
Red on my forehead. They come to me
Each with three nails in his palm,
And wait while the fear turns
Gold and liquescent in the bluegreen
Of the firmament. The nails grow wings,
They do not see, transparent with the
Heavens embroidered on them,
Now, dragonflies, the color of the
Monsoon on my lips.
My dragonflies,
They don't carry stones.
We fly.
Gowri Suresh: She lives in Kottayam, Kerala and has been writing poems since she was 10. She is a student of class 12. She was the winner of the Reuel Prize for the most promising young writer of the year in 2016.