Lana Bella – Five Poems

lenaLana Bella, a Pushcart nominee, she has a diverse work of poetry and fiction published and forthcoming with over 150 journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (Winter 2016), Abyss & Apex, Chiron Review, Coe Review, Foundling Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Harbinger Asylum, Literary Orphans, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Quarterly, William Jessup University, and elsewhere, among others.


My uncle had a profile
quasi of the fault
that didn’t get fixed
completely, or was spent
from being inside of
himself too long.
Mutable and stone-slate,
he gazed out the world
on his rattan chair
by the window
and went nowhere;
stitched the sun
to his chest
as the sky left curtains
of blue over
his rheumatic eyes.
Inhales in scores of smokes
docile as that first gasp
to a stolen kiss,
his lungs ticked quietly on,
making the heart
swoop down the evening
air with the old
narrative arcs of
past affairs and hooch.
And when there were instants
when he wondered
how he was a content
pawn in this cosmic
machine, he would shut
his eyes and let
the bluesy staccatos
vibrated beneath his white
hair, exposing the pulpy
neck to the faded neon
lighting, until all the smell
of smoke disappeared.


Once you get over the idea
of him not being the husband
to your future,
things like sharing the morning paper
over breakfast
seem less reactionary,
and more interim,
like a short-termed commerce.

Dulcet and numbing,
you won’t know the sounds of
his snoring that
gently flutter the hair on the back
of your neck,
or the way his fingers move
across the computer keyboards
as the ceiling fan stirs cool
his black hair.

But you’ll remember how
the speed of you falling out of
your long stride of need
into his swift pull of your ponytail,
and you’ll wonder from which
skin you were born,
and what shape you will hold alone
when yours is a body devoured
from the inside out.


We were languid pulses
pulled by wreckage. I,
an angle at conflict, scuffed
about with a milk-warm
tea cup, toppling over
the echoes that have all but
dissipated. Whereas he
was driven by an impulse far
more pure: geometry.

Dawn after dawn,
I watched him clip on
his name tag, throw in
the side pocket pen, ruler,
a protein bar, count the pile of
bitter years he had emptied
out the night before on
the mahogany dresser,
trace the creases of
my disillusion with
his sinking eyes.


For the girl whose pearl buttons
felled from her blouse,
she found little to amend the guilt
as the man’s wrinkles creased
oddly over his hair line,
for he reached out and down,
caught cleanly the treble rapids
of opulent seeds in the cupped hands.

A floor length mirror set against
the glass bay, beholding this teasing
of her laughter between teeth,
and those wiry arms
of a stranger lashing down
to the lithe manifesto of timbres of
falling pearl buttons,
so crisp that an aria was felt
to ping a thousand earthling cheers.


snow falls from
the pale green eyes
of the pines,
but what can it see
through the frenzy
of loose innards
and blunt clippings
of entropy?

only in silence
do we give audience
to the roughhouse
that shifts our breaths
and bones into wake,
like a sequined light
who becomes alert
only to the dim terrain
through the weaving
of leopard geckos and
snow fireflies–





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2 Responses to Lana Bella – Five Poems

  1. Parker's Poetry says:

    Thanks for posting these very well written poems

  2. Pingback: A Brutal Kind of Leaving

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