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Delicate Wisdom Swallows in the clouds:Intentional disorderOf flickering dots. How slowly the skyDescends in smokey blue greys Upon the garden. Delicate wisdom Of the breeze, gently partingIndian Almond leaves. If I were a bird, I would elect to reside In a house of chalk. And boldly traverseThe time that expands, at dusk, Between North and South. Perhaps I would have My own worries, big and small: A mundane bird life. Perhaps I would longFor adventures, imagined: The life of humans.
Fair Game The turtle dove receives no help, It simply is. It is expected that you walk The path yourself. Inconsequential: what you think You are or need. The shape of your body will change, Year after year. Like the rest of us, feed the ants,And be reborn. None of the hardships that the dove Endures be spared To you, a form just as finite,And crude. You are The clay, the dreamer in the well,The dream itself.
This Time How precious: my grandmotheras my daughter. How delicatethe lines that run through time and emerge here and there. This time, I will mother you. This time, we will face each otherin the most intimate,quotidian friction of tempers. This time, I will repayyour previous iteration for hertruthfulness in days of hardship. This time, I may be able to help her out of her grooves, her moods, which you carried with you without a bag,offered as soon as you were born –your worried face, your ancient gazea promise, a demand: It takesmore than one time to make a woman.
Lorelei Bacht is a European poet living in Asia with her family, which includes two young children and a lot of chaos. Her current work is primarily concerned with motherhood, marriage, and aging. This year, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as OpenDoor Poetry Magazine, Litehouse, Global Poemic, Visual Verse, Visitant and Quail Bell. She can be found on instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer
Fair Game The turtle dove receives no help, It simply is. It is expected that you walk The path yourself. Inconsequential: what you think You are or need. The shape of your body will change, Year after year. Like the rest of us, feed the ants,And be reborn. None of the hardships that the dove Endures be spared To you, a form just as finite,And crude. You are The clay, the dreamer in the well,The dream itself.
This Time How precious: my grandmotheras my daughter. How delicatethe lines that run through time and emerge here and there. This time, I will mother you. This time, we will face each otherin the most intimate,quotidian friction of tempers. This time, I will repayyour previous iteration for hertruthfulness in days of hardship. This time, I may be able to help her out of her grooves, her moods, which you carried with you without a bag,offered as soon as you were born –your worried face, your ancient gazea promise, a demand: It takesmore than one time to make a woman.
Lorelei Bacht is a European poet living in Asia with her family, which includes two young children and a lot of chaos. Her current work is primarily concerned with motherhood, marriage, and aging. This year, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as OpenDoor Poetry Magazine, Litehouse, Global Poemic, Visual Verse, Visitant and Quail Bell. She can be found on instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer
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