tufts of wool,
red signals amid blue whims
of careless fingers:
she is a moving trajectory
holding on to my hand,
on the roads I’ve walked many miles
staring into men’s eyes,
bemused at their sadness,

her hands,
holding the tea cup now,
avoiding the lipstick trail splaying
to disappointment,
her lips,
careful to sift through
the loose tea leaves and tepid water,
giving pause where
the weight of sighs is chained
to the bottom like anchors,

clicks of joints announce
her clumsy push from the table,
I turn back,
fasten still to the length of her city,
but it seems I am looking
to a distant place
where all past recedes to,

old souls float near each other
as if asleep, pale, dark faces,
all beautifully shaped,
exploded like dandelion plumes in wind,
and yet,
I am no longer welcome there,
for the woman I love most is wearing all
the bodies I left behind—

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—Lana has a diverse work of poetry and fiction published and forthcoming with over 160 journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (Winter 2016), as well as Fourth & Sycamore, Galway Review, and Columbia Journal.

Follow her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/niaallanpoe

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