Alec Hershman

After So-and-So


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.