SurVision Magazine
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An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Three
LANA BELLA
Apostrophe
Consider
ears bracketed by ocean
from whale songs and sky-borne
down, you floated up on needles of
apostrophe to know far fields of
the northern shore. You woke this
dawn inside jaw and cheekbone,
where fluid and song caught deep
in the throat salving what soiled
towards diphthongs. The planes of
you made an altar of fingertips
against the licks of salt, as if you
have already undone by thesaurus
of similar tastes, mouth as egress
rusting the spaces between skyline,
into seeds, into the dips and rises of
the sea that you'll name metaphors.
Indigo
Where earth was song and currents,
I spread false indigo onto nights
given glow of human skin, recalled
to the pull of your hands in abeyance
that was both real and omnipresent.
Darkly of life I slept, pressing black
to the length of your wrist the way
you wore me like a grief turning back
four hundred years, as though in
breathing I could coax the world into
fading less. Sometimes such bathos
of indigo breathed only in looped
alphas, speared words from mouth's
quickening, leading my body anent
a moment's blind, as sharp and taut as
an ice-seared leaflet blade. Yet only in
this manner I was more Adam than
God, an eternal wound made endurable
for such a grand thing as your touch.
from whale songs and sky-borne
down, you floated up on needles of
apostrophe to know far fields of
the northern shore. You woke this
dawn inside jaw and cheekbone,
where fluid and song caught deep
in the throat salving what soiled
towards diphthongs. The planes of
you made an altar of fingertips
against the licks of salt, as if you
have already undone by thesaurus
of similar tastes, mouth as egress
rusting the spaces between skyline,
into seeds, into the dips and rises of
the sea that you'll name metaphors.
Indigo
Where earth was song and currents,
I spread false indigo onto nights
given glow of human skin, recalled
to the pull of your hands in abeyance
that was both real and omnipresent.
Darkly of life I slept, pressing black
to the length of your wrist the way
you wore me like a grief turning back
four hundred years, as though in
breathing I could coax the world into
fading less. Sometimes such bathos
of indigo breathed only in looped
alphas, speared words from mouth's
quickening, leading my body anent
a moment's blind, as sharp and taut as
an ice-seared leaflet blade. Yet only in
this manner I was more Adam than
God, an eternal wound made endurable
for such a grand thing as your touch.
Lana Bella is from California. The author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus, 2016), she has also had poetry and fiction featured in over 500 journals including Acentos Review, Barzakh, EVENT, The Fortnightly Review, The Galway Review, Ilanot Review, Notre Dame Review, Rock & Sling, The Stillwater Review, Sundress Publications, and Whiskey Island, among others, and in Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3.
