A Little Dusk Dementia

I rescued the Plath’s

hardcover from the tentacles

of your dementia,

where spittle has congealed into

the small cracks of its leather bound.

With an abundance of new

questions that remained blissfully

ignorant to the simple act of

you folding your hand in mine,

I felt the tenuous stitching

along the toothed dunes beneath

your fingers, as if against my touch,

yours was an ireful heaving

across the gentle moras

of ambient spa water.

Besides you, time hauled long and taut

with me tracing eyes of

amber-blue over

the half-world of your winter:

my halting calm amidst

the deterioration of your sensory.

On days like this when December cold

left claws on the pale downpour

engulfing all our hopes and promises,

like a golden naiad felled

from an early kingdom,

you raised your arms skyward,

mouth gushed words toward some

lucent celestial beings

only they alone could pick through.

While I, wrapped myself around

you, a stranger, made home about

your unknowing arms.

- Lana Bella

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. See more of Lana’s work here