Why Sally Wears WhiteKristin Kelly
Infirm Betties gather colds and mums to keep in cups, bedside. They populate their wards with slumping cut-outs: stars, keys. To the light, a morphine shot of Betty gurgles. Each room holds its breath as if under water, sky-heavy, hard to hear. Dan with his boombox, Betties with their fallen figure-eight— not infinite, just awkward. A Starsky, not much. Visitors with a pot of daisies, maybe figurines. What’s left of Betties cinches the reigns. We see a lack, some loose leaves. We count twice. Full deck.
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