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                        Lana Bella






It was late December then, and the fine

salt on my skin has already receded like

an orchid quilt in lace. I'd resigned against 

the hiss and gurgles of the house dotted

in snow, as if solace can be sought from

dull timbered floor and silvered double-

hung glass bays. Unlike last winter when 

there was everything to see from porch to

horizon, now the sky lay daubed in smears

of raw sienna and dripping wax of lead pie-

bald with cold islands. Scattered eyes

across the white landscape, I traversed the

plain to somewhere where something gold

and fair was awaiting to crack in that hard 

weather. To know then I'd conceded to have 

pilfered the earth and all its seasons like a 

thieving tenant, I felt at last warm inside 

a cloak of frosted pelt. And how this place, 

with its pendulous hours coursing through 

my wake, might just recover all of me, an 

artist, a recluse, a drifter, a mad fool.


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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, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Writing Disorder, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere, among others.

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