Lana Bella



A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 350 journals, 2River, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Grey Sparrow, Notre Dame Review, Otoliths, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Ilanot Review, and Westwind, among others. She resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.

Dusk Skating on Still Water

The ballad winter poured hard thunder 
through the slats, Stroh rum pulled in 
the gut, atrophy crowed black on her 
heart without weight. Whispers of frost
knurled blue-skulled, darkness strewed 
seraph tongues over the pale of her back,
like dusk skating on still water. Now she
plated a meal in the house of volley-stones,
tofu atomized with fondue heat, Cha-ohm* 
minnow flicked scales to her teeth, down 
the throat wild tumbler swilled, dim études
scratched and scratched in analogue feed.

*Cha-ohm: a tropical member of the acacia family, native to mainland Southeast Asia, is a well-loved herb among Thais, Cambodians and Laotians. The most common way cha-om is cooked is with beaten eggs, or fried fish.



Dear Suki:  Number Fifty-Eight

Dear Suki: Kawachi Fuji Garden, 02’,
yours were hot wool socks and fleece-
lined gloves dressed on intimate skin,
primrose curls pooled out of red cowl
hood, the fluorescent sky sweat where
the sun collects, cream egg-yolk bent
shadows of spring overlays tangling on
tunnel walls and polychromic wisteria
vines. Watching, held back by barbed
wire and drafted lines, I slipped under
the sonnets of blossoms’ pendent eaves,
sieved and swept in the fever of imagist’s
strokes. And here was where I breathed
myself thin mirrored the veins of winged
careless breeze, each bore evidence of a
winter fraught and summer rained, until
you became more breath than form, less 
truth than abstract, just ordinary enough
to stir my memory’s silt, the similar way
awareness startled me to your fingertips
laden with flight, whispering through waltz
of alchemy, cinching my throat with songs.


©The Acentos Review 2017