Lana Bella

The blueberry girl turns, cradling
to save the lullaby. Maybe this
is like love walking through
the door once, pouring honey in
her cup. Dopamine splays from
sheer black gloves, she is static of
very small things, clamant jaw
setting loose a blur of starlings in
wild notes. In the balance her limbs
pattern to the tall-damp stalks
swept wayside, leaving a fugue of
grandeur rustling jonquils that
slip in and out of dusk. Then, she
dreams of clever bones triumphing
over this open country, lurching into
the brackish water for the scent of
blood innerves in the veins, as if she
is made again in the image of god.