Lana Bella – Three Poems

1-5-1Lana Bella is a Pushcart nominee. She is an author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016) and Adagio (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press), has had her poetry and fiction featured with over 200 journals, including Columbia Journal, Gravel, elsewhere, among others. She resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.



She was a stoic woman,
measured by the shape of
her pencil-legs emptying out
the frayed country dress.

She was a frugal woman,
mused by the fat severed at
the elbows, and ewers of sun-
light preserved in the cellar.

Two cats lived with her, seen
by the patchwork of ebony and
tawny whiskered-tails curled
away from the stone hearth.

The morning hunger came to
her bedside, said the cigarette
felled from her fingers with
nothing more than an ache in
her ribs.

Desires she nursed on autumn
nights, remembered by the hands
leaving ghost imprints on glass
panes, when she had already
lived on earth for ten years more.


Life walked down Hollywood Boulevard,
nodded to the tattooed hood with
cigarette tugging red and stark
on his pierced lips–
tipping the blue Dodger cap that
still winged of last night’s drug binge,
it moved through the dense pavement
and crisp August sun piling
in heaps over the Walk of Fame,
where stars and starlets lay painted
and neat and nestled downward
an ocean of yesteryear’s splendor
and present-day’s caricature–
side-stepping the oblique stares and
questions from foreign travelers
with flashing iPhones and
innocuous prattles,
it felt a longing for home,
though home was frail and
yet so palpable like a soldier amidst
the last dregs of wartime nearing peace–
suddenly, it imagined it a tugboat
hewing across blue ripples of the Pacific,
dreaming the same dream from stem
and stern, sailing into a deep and restful sleep.



I will see you again when
the kerosene sleep
echoed in my idle place
and your evening prose
stitched my breaths
beneath the Bombay sky.
I have done this, spiraling
in the topography of
the far and inside you,
with wisps of the half-light
scraped in nuptial flight
for the passage home.
When the rain fell wide in
flat stream, and Banyan
trees slept gray washing
down my rumination,
I walked my silence on
the wet streets of Bombay,
miring the ticking clock of
soliloquy over the bristly air,
poisoning itself in the life-
lines of my cupped hands.


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