Poetry by Ana Lauran
I stand coated in moonlight, drenched in a field of purple tulips—
the kind of field that grows out of numb fingers and oil paints
and hangs forgotten in the back corner of a French museum.
The solitary windmill-sails hum a dreamlike chant
while the tulips hold hands with the stars:
Their petals open up like the feathers of an exotic, lilac bird
and spill into their first flight.
The reaching starlight
latches onto them. And they waltz.
I hear the windmill’s monotone monologue.
It tells me of a young Dutch farmer and his love—
two shadows with wooden shoes lingering in the dark.
The wind brushes circles with her hair;
the gusts of warm air paint stories on his face.
And their aching thoughts vaporize like fading candles.
The tour guide informs that the museum closes at 5 p.m.
Oh, how I wish to disappear and remain lost in purple forever!
At least the café in the corner of the boulevard is open,
so I stagger through its empty rows of tables.
While the waitress in the lavender apron pours my cup of coffee,
I think of him
wearing bruised feet inside wooden shoes,
as he stumbles through the mauve rows of tulips
away from her.
Ana Lauran is a graduating senior at Clackamas High School. In 2016, she emigrated from Romania to Happy Valley, Oregon, with her parents and two younger brothers. In addition to reading and writing poetry, Ana enjoys playing the viola, learning Spanish, and traveling—especially road tripping around the country with her family. She is looking forward to studying Speech and Hearing Sciences at Portland State University beginning in the fall of 2021. Ana has been published once in the North Clackamas School District Literary Arts Magazine, Poetry and Prose in the Time of Pandemic and Protest.