where is my arc, paulie?
should we sit this sky out, spread our
supply of sorry stars?
should we attempt to tell each other’s
rice paper bodies once more?
should we repaint haloes, revise
messy pages – fiction or nonfiction?
should we cast green peas, pearls,
caution? how thin a sprawl
of never, nothing can we spin?
intake / outcome
somewhere blighted with blackwater,
unforgiving residues of unease.
a thick tar sprawled where there
once was a bridge, a mouth, an eye.
i am prone to ghost limbs, loose
what you call change, i call impact,
if there was an exit, i would misplace
the keychain on purpose.
i once desired change.
then came the empty peal of a found
horizon – the landscape nothing like.
every subsequent may, sunlight
has pressed itself into a sharp outline,
the same revelation: i see the shadow
of the blue bedsheets through which
i used. i traced untrue. a push. a route
i must refuse to walk with you.
Lorelei Bacht is a person. Her recent work has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Mercurius, Anti-Heroin Chic, Menacing Hedge, Beir Bua, Sinking City, Barrelhouse, SWWIM, The Inflectionist Review, After the Pause, and elsewhere. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter: @bachtlorelei