THE HALVED NOTES
Just one single scratchy chirp from the bow across
the cello string, an octave spills then slides down
the tailpiece. It splits in half, one part falls on your
fingertip, the other scissors soft blue air, but always
either too much when joined, or nothing at all when
torn. If you could pluck a thousand days away with
light grounds your eyes, and a thousand nights with
darkness turns inward the bitter pith, you would tune
feverishly under a restless sun and restive moon. It
is both a necessity and luxury living within the flesh
that churns forever of music, the same way a vat of
broth seethes with rich spices. You stir the liquid but
know not when the stock is done as the arms start
to drag, and just like ripples crossing the lake, you
travel on the back of fluid folds, tucking rose-lipped
sound of the half-note where your finger wades the
water, as its twin leaps from the butterfly wings--fuse
together at the middlemost where harmony holds court.
Lana is a Pushcart nominee, and author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016) and Adagio (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 260 journals, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Writing Disorder, ThirdWednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere,
Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever frolicsome imps.
The Halved Notes (previously published with Chiron Review).
It wasn't about
The steady rise,
The steep drop.
Nor my hands
Clenching the rail,
It's about this bed
Upon the ceiling,
In the blur
Of a rotating fan.
Howell, New Jersey
There's a hint of something exquisite
beyond a thin wall of stinging pain;
a wisp, a crescent, the star
that's hidden by the twisted light
of a liar's moon.
A soft curve of your favourite colour
a touch to make you gasp and stiffen
a chink of excitement and silver hope,
a thin cord. A clean breath.
Something unseen and unhoped-for
but present in an unremembered dream
- an un-thing. Un-pressured.
A hint of something beautiful
just beyond the wall. Maybe.
From her collection, 'Contains Strong Language and Scenes of a Sexual Nature' (Puppywolf, 2010)
Ever notice a "word to the wise", is usually more than a one word?
In fact, it is often more than a few sentences?
To sound important, quote yourself.