at the bottom of the well, the owl sings

By Lorelei Bacht

moonlight into the gloom, gleaming
these black stones into something of 

a lullaby. give it a try: sit and listen

for their echoes. nothing can harm you
in these plied slabs of water. silence

is something of a home. every stone 

says: there, there; says: you do not need 
to carry this any longer. says: are you 

done with it? says: let us have it back. 

what was in your backpack did not 
belong to you. there was no plan, only 

role cards: golden, scapegoat, invisible – 

wigs and firecrackers. every generation 
reels out the storyline: every little child 

hansel-and-gretel. every hunter. every 

gingerbread house. you walked alone, 
drinking rainclouds, making a sad feast 

of breadcrumbs. listen: I am your own 

whisper, refusing that you seep to sleep 
into these cold waters, these frogs. I am 

the way back up the rope, slippery, sure, 

but possible. I am the night breeze, 
the tuberose, the busy owl that greets,

pauses, and hoots you back to work. 

Lorelei Bacht's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Visitant, The Wondrous Real, Quail Bell, Fahmidan, Abridged Magazine, Odd Magazine, Postscript, PROEM, SWWIM, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review, Slouching Beast Journal, Hecate, and others. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei . She lives in Southeast Asia with her family, together with a few ancient trees and a thousand millipedes.