In April, the forest blooms

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In April, the forest blooms its terrifying

bloom of red. Every twig, deer, pebble

at the bottom of the stream flowers.

I do not know, but I imagine that it must 

be the same with you: the great upsurge

of angry crocuses—the urge to make

something more of ourselves. Today, 

every quail, raccoon seeks to robe his 

reflection in new meat, as if this time, 

it might end differently, perhaps not end 

at all. In April, we grab our brooms and 

sweep the dust of bones back into the 

forest. What is no longer edible should

be dispersed, offered back to the spores

that travel the air in silence. One year, 

my mother was eaten in such a way, and 

grew into a blackberry bush: all canes,

prickles—her shadow clothed me in fire.

The truth is: we do not know where we

go, where mother went or the others. 

We cannot call it a calamity, the bloom—

as we do not understand it, and simply 

put the quail in the knapsack, the knife

back in the pocket, clean, and ready 

to be used again. 

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Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is a European poet living in Southeast Asia. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. She has also been known to befriend orb weavers and millipedes. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in Visitant, Quail Bell, The Wondrous Real, Odd, Abridged, Postscript, Backslash Lit, The Inflectionist Review, and others. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter: @bachtlorelei

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