A poem by Lana Bella

The hoarfrost petaled in pale-
throated flakes despite your
desire to clutch its blossom,
trembling to show how fragile
a thing can be. With fabric
of leather and wool cleaved to
frozen fingers, you wrestled
winter’s pull onto your son’s
kite catching at the currents,
cresting in draught so taut
you clasped what slashes of
laughter wobbling up and
down then sloping with your
son’s name on the tongue.

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 250 journals, Antithesis Journal, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Writing Disorder, Third Wednesday, 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.

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