Lana Bella


I’m spinning, slow, in the old
garden of rocks, as if the sudden
eclipse of sun trades shadows
with an old ghost. I hold always
that girl who strides the land in
her seam and volume, pinging
against instincts like a whale in
the sea. Hands cup tendrils pin-
wheeling the fingertips, I blink
sapphire eyes that cut to the hill
somewhere, as daybreak drips
sky through the brambles back
to my footsteps on the cornered
stairs. Here, I know what’s like to
be gone for decades, sensing for
those little soft still rooks closest
to the frayed ordinary, fluttering,
silvery in the middle of memory,
like an erasure of sounds drawing
dark into a bullet, firing home.

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