Thought Gelato.
By Yael Bright
A nibble of style:
"The Radical Optimist Forgot Spectacles"
in the lecture hall
next to the left-handed desk.
A rather dashing pair of spectacles
a spectacle within itself:
Tasteful frames
Just the right amount of tortoiseshell
not too tacky;
not like the type of glasses
you see on a man with an ascot
that silently screams
“i am an intellectual”
or more realistically
“I want you to think I am an intellectual...I mean look at this pairing of accessories, you really think an average person is capable of such class and style?”
Yes. I do.
But not these.
they were rounded, because edges feel unwelcome.
the circular lenses
aid
guide
and advise
mind
Body...
Soul.
with it’s enticing magnetism
it would be a crime not to try them on for size.
i feel a gentle embrace reminiscent of an orchid painting
caressing the rivets along the sides of my ears
as a trapeze suddenly swings across my toothy path
beaming an illustrious glow.
grandmothers’ folded linens,
tomato soup
hold the cream!
just how i like it.
all at once i am enthralled
at the pan’s sizzling studio
the onions belting
spices harmonizing
a sautéed symphony I once overlooked.
it seems the process radiates beauty as does the final product tap dances on my tantalized taste buds.
clouds in shapes of divinity
the crescent moon reflects my smile in the sky.
cement cracks diverging to welcome a spot for the shy wallflower.
i’ve marinated too long.
there are places to be and things to do.
i feel suffocated by my inability to continue forward.
how will i know what is coming next and how will I know how to prepare?
the door of the lecture hall was left ajar,
almost as if to say
“don’t forget me.”
​
*Published by the Columbia University General Studies Arts and Research Collective of Fall 2023-Spring 2024, and Surgam Literary Magazine, (Philolexian Society)
​
“A Tinged Rouge”
The sunset and its ephemeral beauty provide a space for breath, for memory.
A honeysuckle splinter of consciousness that reminds you of
a particularly tangy strawberry, or
a pair of socks snugly fashioned on your feet just right,
or a handsome countenance walking down the aisle...
aisle five of a Shoprite.
Each day the sun blushes in the frantic fear she has overstayed her welcome, and yet she fails to recognize the
wrinkled faces,
wiggly toothed smiles
and prematurely balding heads...
Individually and collectively basking, indulging in the effortless glow she emits,
The head-turning type of glow,
The type that gingerly opens the door slightly ajar as if not to scare the moon,
she wipes your tears and whispers,
“I’m with you.”
Despite her illustrious radiance, she finds herself embarrassed.
Maybe this isn’t about the Sun.