by Lorelei Bacht
I am the girl in red riding
the crest, my presence
a warning, a sign
*
of tsunami: wave upon
wave of foam waiting
for birds, for mud, for businesses.
I am the change you call
and regret having called, the cold,
cold hand of growth
undercut.
I am weather.
*
You watch me drive my eyes
into your homes, make room
for silts, for my darkened
transparencies –
it is too late when you see me coming.
*
A clock, a clock, nothing.
*
Those of you who survive
up on the hills will farm
the land remade:
my gift of sediments.
*****
Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is currently running out of ways to define herself, and would like to reside in a tranquil, quiet form of uncertainty for a while. Her recent work has appeared and/or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Visitant, The Wondrous Real, Abridged, Odd Magazine, Postscript, PROEM, SWWIM, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review, Hecate, and elsewhere. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter: @bachtlorelei