House with Illuminated Windows
We stand in a room too large
And carpeted in red, all too many of us.
Interstitial, the space expends. Alone,
We tend to our mourning.
The tender one has run outside, attempts
To scream her grief back to the wind:
The rainstorm is coming. Bending pines,
For which we have no space left.
Inside, my sisters mourn the passing
Of their sister. Every face devoid of
Meaning. No-one on the deathbed.
Or outside. She is not in the stones.
She is not in the trees. Not in the house,
Harbour. Tonight, the silence of the sea
Lorelei Bacht is a European writer living in Asia with her family. When she is not carrying little children around or trying to develop their appreciation for modern art, she can be found in the garden, befriending orb weavers and millipedes. She once edited and published poetry, under a different name. Her current work can be found and/or is forthcoming in Open Door Poetry Magazine, Visitant, The Wondrous Real and Quail Bell. She can also be found on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer
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