Lana Bella



Dear Suki: Akita, Japan, 2010,
to know the years had collected
snow caterwauled on shingled
roof, I wept red on cherry trees
and turned winged shortly after
loving you. How to speak it right
without floating up the aches of
your copper-eyes, I lifted you out
over the perfume of cedar chips,
bearing ancient rhythms of past
seasons laden with pale tunneled
mist and rich dark wind. In this
perfect aerial bloom, we touched
fingers to Lake Towada’s cool pane
of glass, reached back to porters-
stained purlieus of Kosaka Mine.
Eventually, our dendritic breaths
were a soft, conglomerate cable of
supine motes, unshaped yet for rain.

(previously published with The Hamilton Stone Review)



Dear Suki: Mojave Desert, June 7th,
your scorched feet streaked patterns
on my red-sun thighs, but I, who had
always born evidences of rain sinking
like god’s pale tears over this desert,
took to dress your smooth obsidian
hair with the entire city at the noon
hour heaved above and around us like
a graveyard. You broached through
the air, into the heat of every second,
upward the salty seams of sky’s winged
buds pressing calligraphy on skin, easy
and slick. My eyes crossed the vacuous
floor whose music was neither requiem
nor sonata, yet it nerved me through
your sirens of aubade more fluted than
any desert bluebird, released, smoldered
in the cusp of the ear, until my mind’s eyes
have already spent a lifetime looking back.

(previously published with Red Bird Chapbooks)