a field in england you can trust our concealed conversations: we have been growing your bodies for years. pour yourself another cup of bitter. stir honey in, to smooth out the beating. so. here it is, our golden teaching: you will not be cured of your loneliness, your longing – deep, incapable of communion with stars. there will always be a surface, a distance from and a distance within. you do not need to eavesdrop on others – they too: incapable of salvaging. they too: clueless when it comes to being. here is the plan: when you are finished exploring alternatives, and each route leading you back here; when you are done jolting, jerking a panic of splashes, and realise that you can breathe, being a fish – then, you will begin to learn something. although we must warn you: at first, learning does not feel like learning.
Lorelei Bacht is a poetic experiment, a beautifully broken body, and a mother to two young children. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beir Bua, Dodging the Rain, The Madrigal, Briefly Zine, The Selkie, Green Ink Poetry, streecake, Marble Poetry, and elsewhere. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei