Two poems by Lana Bella

A Mourner Out Of Luck

You were a mourner 
out of luck, a transient
grew idle in transit.
You made cold sheets
your lone lover, and
time, your sympathizer.
You hadn't touched 
another skin for so long 
now, can anyone see
your posture, straight 
and steady, despite 
the host of sinews and
fat leaving your bones? 
Toppling over many 
slopes of sighs and trails
of smoke, you had sped
into yourself, holding
silhouettes of sadness
and spume, always 
changing, into someone 
else. 




Water-Glass Jar

When she left, 
it was said she had 
the fungal blood 
of a thousand men 
weeping through 
her fingertips.
Most days she 
was inflamed to 
the sky’s touch,
waiting for 
the bony horizon
to skipper her 
towards the rapine 
of someone else's 
water-glass jar.
But to be not at all 
nearest to forward, 
she peeled those 
cloven fingers 
from the gaps of 
her thighs, 
skinned the hot-
plate of pulses 
before the sun's
alkali flow arrived 
only to snatch up 
her low oxygen diets.
And as if the tender 
spores of her were 
forgone in profile, 
she rose, palms 
reached out to 
the rivets bytes of 
the dulcet shoal, 
eyes locked 
with the exquisite 
corpses of the water.


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 Bio: A Pushcart nominee, Lana Bella 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. 

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