A Huntress' Arrows
Lana Bella
Come closer, said the track marks that
stitched your leaving like a huntress'
arrows. For that pale space as if to
reconcile a grief, I stood in imitation
of your body, signaling dusk hatching
of air and pressed oil, drawing into
the angora sweater that remembered
you in the night. But I will not speak of
your mouth or the tremors clung
to the soles of your fingertips the way
a callous nest of filaments bathed
with red, fumbling with the front door.
Lana Bella
Come closer, said the track marks that
stitched your leaving like a huntress'
arrows. For that pale space as if to
reconcile a grief, I stood in imitation
of your body, signaling dusk hatching
of air and pressed oil, drawing into
the angora sweater that remembered
you in the night. But I will not speak of
your mouth or the tremors clung
to the soles of your fingertips the way
a callous nest of filaments bathed
with red, fumbling with the front door.