We carry rubbles around
A postwar landscape:
Charred buildings, distorted spines
Of metal exposed.
Skeleton of our past lives,
Which we roam, searching
For a bit of coal or wax
Or string. We invent
Substitutes for coffee, love,
And moral conduct.
No chicken leg, no waistcoat,
That old world is gone.
On the pier, there is a boat.
Go get a suitcase.
Fill it with the skeleton
Of our love, defunct.
Lorelei Bacht (she/her/they/them) 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 gender, motherhood, marriage, and aging. This year, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as OpenDoor Poetry Magazine, Litehouse, Visual Verse, Visitant and Quail Bell. She can be found on instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and @the.cheated.wife.writes