Weather Fair

By Lorelei Bacht

Now, what? The shadow pulled
from underneath my feet – how to find 
my footing on the rocking, the boat?

Kneaded for years, the ground begins 
to bloom into this now, this here, this,
this – and I embrace the work. 

At last, a resistance, a wrestling with: 
I don't know how to do the happy thing. 

What we call: trees, the temperance 
of leaves regrown, regrown – no need 
for furthermore amputations. 

The bleeding stopped and dressed, 
the lilies brought, unwrapped, the bone 
of China white and clean, the hospital visit – 

Now, what? I lean into the morning 
sun, unprepared, and quite frankly: terrified. 
What if upwards like a balloon? 

If unchained, and now lost? The captain 
announces: to sit, hold on, to wait it out. If 
you could weather the tempest, then you can

weather fair.

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.