Author Feature - March 2021

Lorelei Bacht is the latest iteration of a bundle of people loosely attached into an individual. She is: 1) a mother to two beautiful children; 2) a wife (perhaps); 3) a job (a passionate educator with a penchant for mathematics, biology, and anything to do with patterns); 4) the space that breathes between all of the above. This space has often given birth to writing, from the most prosaic to something close to poetry. Places visited and/or inhabited in the past have include: the sea, Paris, England, Smith College, Hanoi. Previous careers include: lobbying, publishing, a few other occupations to do with words and helping people. Work previously published under a different name will not be included here. 

This spring, Lorelei is nursing the wounds of a failing marriage (her second), drawing and writing furiously, albeit in bouts of five minutes (working moms of toddlers unite), and exploring such themes as gender, ethnicity, motherhood, marriage and aging. Some of her work has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Open Door, Litehouse, Visual Verse, Visitant and Quail Bell. Other musings in words and/or sketches can be found on Instagram: @the.cheated.wife, @the.cheated.wife.writes and @lorelei.bacht.writer. 

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I am learning to sleep like a goldfish:

Awake, but suspended. Merely moving

To stay in the same place. 

Hour after hour, a slow undulating 

Of fins. Fixed gaze in the moonlit water. 

A mouth for making smoke rings

Slowly sucks in diluted air, watercolour,

Smoothly flowing through my gills. 

In my head, visions forms incomplete - 

Not quite yet a dream. Sand in my mouth,

Other bodies, the taste of green. 

One week since the neighbour's cat last visited. 


You trip me, watch me fall 

Down the stairs, rumble tumble 

Of broken limbs and hair,

Knocked head, you blame 

Me for making such a fuss. 


You entertain other women,

Old bathwater, everyone gets 

A turn, I ask about the hair,

The smell of another, you say: 

Stop being so fussy.


You take scissors to the fabric

Of our relationship, our family,

The very fabric of reality,

Every morning is the morning

After, you say we've talked 


About this already.


Darling, if you could only see

The flowchart of revenge which

You narrowly escaped. 

Oh my. So. Many. Ways. 


Your standing, breathing 

Next to me: nothing

Short of miraculous. 

They call us:



They call us:

A bit much. How much 

Restraint do you think went

Into this domestic enterprise: 

Laundry, dishes, tucking bedsheets,


One million gestures, repeated 

With one sole goal: to keep 

My fingers off your throat. 

Perhaps I should

Print it, 


The diagram of catastrophes,

And near misses

(I slept on it), 

The measure of the strength 

It takes to take you back, Jack.