White nights – these days,
Hard to determine whether
It is day or night. The moon
Dressed in dirty grey 

Petticoats. The pond rippled, 
Crumpled wrapping of cellophane, 
Denying me a reflection – 
Some sort of twilight. The sky: 

A dense velvet instead 
Of a space to traverse –  
I am not going anywhere. 
No ladder to the moon, these 

Branches: a tangle of barbs,
Some real, some reflected. 
I struggle to imagine an exit. 
A sigh. What I would give 

For the rain to come.

©

Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is a European poet living in Asia with her family. 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. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and @the.cheated.wife.writes.