.
She pouts in a corner
it seems
the gods play rough
.
at times
crushing her breath
into a knot
.
pulling her head-first
through a barrel
of tear-salt
.
staining her face
with keens
shoulders wracked
.
it should have been me
I’m old
he was young.
.
She folds
into a corner
when the gods play rough.
.
.
© 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Seasonings 