Upon receiving an apology
In bed: he holds my hand and says the word that rhymes with glory;
and I am not that solid, not at all made from bricks – instead: gallon after gallon of herrings, all dressed in red, and saltwater larger than the landscape itself.
I never had an anchor. I never had a lighthouse. I never had a sailboat. All I had was
the moveable – the moveable whose having is impossible, impossible – and yet:
In bed, he holds my hand and says the word that rhymes with glory.
And I am not an army, not a hill; I am no official building, and not worth defending: no bank vault, no combination.
I have no intention. I never had a sextant. I never had a map. I never knew where I was headed; I never had a hat, and while we are
on the subject: “captain” is not even my name.
All I had was the ripple, was the ripple, ripples – they all look the same. How sad, I failed to name one after you.
Lorelei Bacht’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beir Bua, The Crank, Abridged Magazine, Odd Magazine, Postscript, PROEM, SWWIM, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review, Slouching Beast Journal, Harpy Hybrid Review, and others. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei. She currently lives in Asia, together with rowdy children, a disgruntled fish-keeper, and a thousand millipedes.