Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Lana Bella- Three Poems

She plods into my waiting arms like 
an open petal hungers for the bees.
Gummy and soft. A concerted coos,
clucks, and bubbles. Eloquent fruit of 
my loins. Instrument of my instincts.
Lullabies for my hunger. Hair of black 
ink curls into the silver belly of my story 
telling. Sucking her tiny thumb like a 
blind girl divines life from the mingle of 
sweet saliva upon the finger's grooves. 
Rounded knees nudge deep where my 
fatness jostles. Fast to dream. She is a 
quiet tapestry cloaked in flesh.

I follow the river of her crooked form. My
finger poises above that button-nose where 
a sliver of crusted mucus thrusting out 
from the shadow, cradling threads of 
the afternoon sun. Sooty lashes curtain 
the amber lake, and upon its water lays 
the light of the world. Sailing still a finger 
to her primrose breaths that cling to the
nether bone, they are in rhythm with my

An infinite oblivion. So through the sieve of
hours, days, years and lifetimes unfolding 
beyond, debris will fall upon ruins. When
hollowness will purge all tenderness along
with memories. Yet I shall belt my body on
the back of sorrow then plunge beneath where
her parting sleeps. Into the living sea of our
waking dreams.

It is always I, and it is always her I am 
holding. Like a dearest breath, well-loved, 
in my motherly hands.

You still miss me from the time:
I drew upon your lips with my whiskey-
laced fingers;
the fingers that I'd danced across smooth
dual-toned piano keys,
to the tattooed flesh with engraved beast
on the strapping bicep.
Your breaths came through heavy and sweet
stirring gone the cigar smoke,
so close I could taste your frothy scent.
You leaned toward, both arms resting 
on the console grand,
where throbbing veins ached rhythms of 
the briny sea.
There, at the scarred shadow of your funny bone:
clear echo of painted ships
and pine-knot smokes,
a well-dressed suit of slate-flawed skin;
dusky light swept gold the blunt-cut fingertips,
slow whirl of the ceiling fan skimmed across 
your brown hair cool.
Into the whiskey-varnished air and against
the wisps of smoldering mist,
my fingers flirted with the familiar refuge of octaves'
crunched desire and toyed sleigh bells,
upon the ivory white and charcoal black
keys of the piano.

 Five long hours. Under my dark. I sprawl awake. 
Tumbling through the house. Sinking against the 
windowpane, watching rained acoustics patter on 
the terraced roof. Cries of raindrops. Mingle with 
a symphony of ghosts roaming about me. Then I 
pour myself a memory from a simmering cauldron, 
flavored of alphabet scars and flakes of consciousness. 
Hands on the pot. A sudden blink. How do I pour the 
liquid thoughts and lettered inks into a bottomless beaker 
without leaving my body in a pool of shadows? But now,
my lips thirst for drink. To warm over the cold where the 
bone is hollow. Until, I lean in, something exposed and 
glassy, echoing on the surface. It is my eyes staring back
at me. Gliding through the fluid with hooked arms. And 
its mouth slurping up the pale gullet, heaving off the 
squirting blood. The muddy mass of flesh throws up 
in the mirage. Then high above, a dullard of rain again 
breaks over the house. If I listen, my heart would once 
more weep and my eyelids would suspend in tears. So I 
stretch my skin where the stairs lay muted and heavy, 
under the particled air into which darkness goes.

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