Lana Bella

You Can Rent a Mollusk’s Cuddle and Punctuate Goodbyes
A trinity of feast wakes hungry
as in a dinner plate of peeled
poplar seedlings having no one
comes to the dinner table; hush
hurts tongue with ivy leaves.
The line between answers and
another question defuses of
dark and brief screeches of light,
and because you have already
turned away into the cuddle of
mollusks, slick brightness leaves
of slime trail, waxing your triage
weight in storm. What inward
veer from circumference to core,
you moved of skinny tie in tusk
maroon home on the concrete,
each sinuous press leaves water
to your salt, raises you gently,
until you bleed pretty in goodbye.

Even as you bent forward, the rain
in October, too, bent, evanescing
through a conchoidal gravity longing
for a supine architecture of spring.
On the road, dead leaves rushed near
the swimming gutter, growing fat on
fault lines whispering the rustles of
watered reliquary. The salt in the air
changed, ungentled like hair rushed
on a brush, moaned of pedal-steel
wind passing of this world into next.
Light, moving. Surfs and trembling
crashes on your sleeves. And in those
tempos of verve and depthless, you
caved in spine a truant of bent shadow
prowl, sorrow eyes, fingers corded
with sky-wires hunting for reflections
of self under lonely stretches of pale.

A three-time Pushcart Prize & Bettering American Poetry nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 400 journals, Acentos Review, Comstock Review, Expound, Ilanot Review, Notre Dame Review, WaccamawWord/For Word, among others, and work to appear in Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3. Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.