by STEVIE KILGORE - October 15, 2020
She is but a rustling leaf
gathered in an oak tree
planted in the ground
during a hurricane.
Her mouth extends,
tongue outstretched.
The taste of something bad
is salt in the air.
The oak wavers
and trembles and falls
clinging to the ground.
The leaves shudder
But Gloria grabs her,
holds her like a mother
holds a daughter.
The eye of the storm
opens, too, and soon
she is cast away
in the wind
like a paper cup
picking up the breeze.