By: Lana Bella

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.