A face had been made of masks. Shellac,
shellac. She cried to prevent snow, entered
like a toddler learning how to toddle.
Trailing her tar baby, biting her thumb.
We say “to hold” a grudge, as if a fist
could weather clean, play ozone layer
to an egg. But nothing stays: to forget is to wake
plastered—albumen dripping from an elbow.