Perhaps more blue will cast
out my monogram from your lips,
just as less corners on words would feel
like a summer rain instead of
To have found me metal,
you congealed your aches from
my metallic strength the thrust of
an old storm. And like a vow negating
things you hardly feel, you pulled
back the weight of dignity out of
my skin of ore.
Sometimes, I mourned red,
the kind of cherry-blossoms’ red with
a telling patina of the imperial monarch.
So when I eclipsed your livid eyes in
the callousness of my red clay,
I knitted myself over and contrived
the figures of my reprieve.
Like a closed-mouth kiss,
I let the heavens rinse me down with
floret sky and dandelion milk:
my heart disentangling free for you to do
with it what you will.
And docile as that fragile wisp
of the Juliet Rose, I became a relic offering
stroking its warmth down your hair,
your senses, your entirety.
© Lana Bella
About the Author
A Pushcart nominee, Lana has work of poetry and fiction published and forthcoming with over 170 journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (Spring 2016), Abyss & Apex, Chiron Review, Coe Review, Columbia Journal, Foundling Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Harbinger Asylum, Galway Review, Literary Orphans, Lost Coast Review, Pinyon Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Quarterly, Roanoke Review, William Jessup University, and elsewhere, among others.
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