Betty Lonely lives in a duplex of stuccoon the north bank of a brackish riverher ears omit the noise from a nearby airstripher mind floats beyond the snapper boats
Betty Lonely, her green eyes are roughly staringat a point through the sliding glass doorher heart live over a drawbridge
her brain is wet like a throw net
Betty Lonely, she will always think in Spanishthough I know her Spanish black hairit will start to fadeshe sunk her past out in the surrounding salt flatsher maidenhood was lost beneath the Spanish moss
Betty Lonely just talks to her grandbabyeverybody else she blots them outbut her words stick like a flounder gigher dry laugh is like a ga