Lorelei Bacht

When the doctors confirmed

our daughter would not die, despite
the-window-the-stone-and-the-twig
conspiring her face into red mulch,
I sat on the back porch, and carefully

painted my fingernails fire engine

red. I demand a real shot. I demand that
yesterday be lifted from my shoulders –
I have no spoon left for that dry dessert,
my mother's mother's biscuit crumbs.

I want today. I want each gradient
of green water-coloured in this garden.
I want: mangoes, lychees, longans.
I demand every sweet, and promise to allow

sunlight to melt on my tongue for as long –

Try me: send anything my way, a
bird, a snake – I will welcome. I am
as ready as mirrors, as trees. Crumpled
fists were a luxury that I happily deposit,

tattered briefcase on the sidewalk. It was
cumbersome, and empty. I am sorry
for the mess I made trying to hold on
to it. This poem serves as a white flag:

I have nothing else to offer than these

empty knuckles, these bright red fingernails.

Lorelei Bacht (they/them) is a person and poet. Their recent work has appeared and/or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, SWWIM, Sinking City, Barrelhouse, The Inflectionist Review, Menacing Hedge, Corporeal, and elsewhere. They are also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei.