by Lana Bella
Dark arched the deep dish of my hands,
down a shadow of far where new arms
flexed as stems. Silvering up the lane,
I walked my shadow into town, bent
to its river walking my December legs.
Casting eyes to the breeze, more lonely
than two should be, I took us by older
skies shaking in the dirt, a phantom to
the fond. Now as an old woman back in
her stilled land, I hooked under skin
struggling free the familiar dark fists,
and how their small bones hollowed like
a bouquet of forks, willing my body to
f
l
o
w
e
r.