by Lorelei Bacht
It could be worse. We could have been made to live on the plain, where the wind never ceases.
I am turning into my mother: I too have learned to sharpen knives and wipe the red off my hands in my skirts.
The forest tall swallows our daily shouts, it makes a feast of them. Undiluted, the anger feeds on our small
community. No wind blows here, where we have been walled in by trees so tall only a fraction of the light of day
descends. In the morning, I gather tools. I do not pray. It is not what we do. There is no time for cathedrals
when all is green, and dark and echoing. sometimes, I sit, alone and wonder what could have become of us if we
had stayed with you: the road, the bank. I skin a mole, start a fire, and think: Is this a life worth living? I do not know
what keeps growing us back like green moss on wet bark, despite the black of boots, cowardly growls of dogs –
Yes, yes, you can have it: the bowl, the chain, the house.
Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is a person, a poet, queer, multi-, living in Asia. Her work has appeared / is forthcoming in Beir Bua, Strukturriss, Abridged Magazine, Riverbed Review, Postscript, PROEM, SWWIM, After the Pause, Hecate, and others. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei