A branch, a branch, a plum, a fig Intended as a counterpoint to anticipation: life as a narrative a thousand times reconfigured, reconstructed. The page count an impossible arithmetic of days, months, years. The genre undetermined until the midnight hour at the hospital or elsewhere. Afterwards, still, a grand fabrication: my grandmother replayed, reminisced, coloured in with wild imaginings - turned nearly mythical, the surplus of fiction having now overcome the obstacle of her presence, the stubborn denial of my claims to shape. The shape, then: overlays of lines and cycles, in long and slow - it all depends on the yardstick, which is never granted. False starts and curves that circle back onto themselves, the role of particular characters nebulous, inter- changeable, a tangle of misappropriations. The thick of it: impossible to see the space between events and people, the distance between intention and receipt. An interweave of echoes, feedbacks, accidents of loops, Larsen. It would take a lifetime, another still, yet another, to attempt to delineate its sense and choose the correct title. In such implacable circumstances, what purpose hope or hope for premeditation? Why favour one partial plan, deck of imaginings over others, infinite in number. A branch, a branch, a plum, a fig - all equal, their value: undetermined.
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 as a woman. 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
I enjoyed reading this and found it quite Buddhist in its theme. Is there a connection there with you?