a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
i dreamed a boat, filled it with soil,
trees, worms, blackbirds.
i said: let it find its way to the light
in slow, convoluted travels.
one half, we shall call day. the other
night. each equally correct, and
dotted with whatever walks, pedals,
swims. i will not name an end.
let it happen: perhaps it could
grow its own volition. whichever way
the kaleidoscope elects or rejects, each
bright fragment, overlaid or cloisonné,
is beautiful. i love every grass blade
the same. the eater of the grass.
the eater of the eater of the grass.
i make my love a long, repetitive ribbon,
or better yet, a circle, and call it:
Lorelei Bacht (she/they) successfully escaped grey skies and red buses to live and write somewhere in the monsoon forest. Their recent writing has appeared and/or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Barrelhouse, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, SWWIM, The Inflectionist Review, Sinking City, Door is a Jar, and elsewhere.