the madrigal, volume ii
by lorelei bacht
Grandmother liked them blue,
Which is a commitment.
She would crush stacks of shale,
Flakes of teal in her hair. She cared
Not much for the science of sediments
Or the intricacies of anthocyanins.
She simply conjured up flush upon flush
Of purplish blue through her hard work.
Quotidian and obstinate,
She went by night to fill her bags
With treasures finally reclaimed
From the quarry where five men glassed
Her brother in the war - His body lost,
His voice a blank as vivid as the pain
Of the myriad of pebbles which disease
Had nested in her chest.
With shale, magic, a temper to endure
Living three houses down from murderers,
What grandmother does in silence in her garden
Is survive: tuberculosis, war. Death even -
Nighttime visitor, soul of our young daughter.
Lorelei Bacht lives and writes in Asia. Her work has appeared / is forthcoming in such publications as Visitant, The Wondrous Real, Quail Bell, Abridged Magazine, Odd Magazine, Postscript, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review and Slouching Beast Journal. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and on Twitter @bachtlorelei