Poetry from Lorelei Bacht
when all the work of suffering is done.
when the warrior fallen, consumed,
when bone returned to sand.
when a photograph is just that—
when the blade is rusted, broken,
the scissors lost amidst the daffodils,
trampled into the mud of a few springs
ago. when what am I doing.
when the throat hoarse, the wifely voice
done with booming. when not a single
choice in sight. when running out
of sodium light and uncertain about
the existence of doors. does one ever?
when finally sitting. when done
with trial and error. when no longer
trying. then joy.
like fingers, unclasping.
Lorelei Bacht (she/they) successfully escaped grey skies and red buses to live and write somewhere in the monsoon forest. Their recent writing has appeared and/or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Harpy Hybrid Review, The Inflectionist Review, Beir Bua, Mercurius, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review, Sinking City, and others. They are also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei.