Tureen of a Deep Lake – Lana Bella

Lana Bella

Like long drinks from a tureen of a deep
lake, you gulp in bold liquid earth with
each sip a familiar sedative pregnant on
your tongue. You are thinking you come
here for convivial loneliness, where chaos
drops by once or twice for your friendly
ear and a few polite “how goes it”s jostle
at the elbow, but whether its habitués care
too little or not at all, you hope everyone
is alike in their ignorance and wretched-
ness. Of course how much strength for a
stranger to demand such from you when
they are no more than an afterthought is
a torque of poison, when you just long to
slip inside the fluid spill, becoming a speck
of foamed bubble staining on the beer glass,
lurking beyond nothing and sweet unseeing.
Vapid and sad and your last droplets con-
sumed, perhaps you should whistle at the
barkeep for another long drink, before your
hold on the night shrinks by the waist side,
and your stoic pride stretches so thick that
you no longer give a damn.

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