I follow the tinsel thread of her affected euphony, 
until it becomes a sound lost to remorse, 
where nothing is alive
to plunge through the breathless air--
dissonance bleeds all around like a miscarriage
in rings of mismatched pulses and vibrations, 
with light is a long distance away, 
longer than the cautious drops of water
down the nether plain. 
She is my dark peeled from flesh, 
whose rituals are no more grating on the nerve
than the easing notes at a funeral, 
yet, I'm still burning soft beneath the hems
of her wax-like breaths, 
as if she has leaned close to my ear and roared. 

Lana Bella has published work and forthcoming with over 120 journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (Spring 2016), Ann Arbor Review, Chiron Review, Literary Orphans, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere, among others. She divides her time between the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a wife of a talking-wonder novelist, and a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps. https://www.facebook.com/niaallanpoe