Lorelei Bacht 🔈
The Walk Home
All night, it precipitated through the black leaves, a syncopated dilution. Let me tell you: I enjoy a chaos - how it declares:
Forget it. I pulled my knees closer, pulled my hat down over my face, listened:
slab upon slab of wet, and anything that crawls, that flies, waiting. In the morning, you can’t help but look up, half
expecting a hole. Somehow, the canopy has rearranged itself, the shape of a
silence. To me, the ground: a tangle of termites, but I am not famished. Instead, I gather thin white corollas newborn.
Thousands of them, sprouted between the end of the downpour, the red rise of
morning. And glistening. The rule is to fill your rucksack, and eat everything in excess. I gather an armful, leave room
for the hope of a quail, later today. I fill my mouth with the nutty bodies of
these apparitions, these ghostlike gills.
About the Author
Lorelei Bacht is a person and poet living, working and missing birches somewhere in Asia. Their recent work has appeared in Beir Bua, The Selkie, The Riverbed Review, Harpy Hybrid Review, Mercurius, Sinking City and elsewhere.