If I Travel Blue and Smoldered
by Lana Bella

If I no longer remember
how it feels to be dragged by
the crust of my neck as
the tempest settled
like demolition, roving, laconic,
a grave fed with shell after shell of
raw pour.
If I, such is now,
travel blue and smoldered
in this shoaling rain,
time and spoilage of land
eroded with long ago footsteps
coursing into the mortised knots
of Katmon tree’s roots,
echoing you in wet evergreen.
If I reach out,
to feel the cotton bud
of an offshoot,
will my Nuannoi-grassed fingers
move themselves from yawning like
verdant crescents,
whole though empty where
you live on in somnolent warmth,
made quivering of tendon and bone,
wind-sped me out of
my dreaming.

IMAGE: “Blue, Orange, Red” by Mark Rothko (1961).


A Pushcart nominee, Lana Bella is an author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016) and Adagio (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 270 journals, including 2River, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Ilanot Review, The Writing Disorder, Third Wednesday, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere, 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.