Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and teaches in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various online and print publications. Some of her favorite recent publications can be found in Susurrus, The Medley, and narrated on the Midwest Weird podcast. She received her MFA from the University of Texas – El Paso and also holds a doctorate in educational leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social
Seventeen, this morning I am walking as rain spatters
the spine of Les Rambles; mouth open, no name yet,
I am made of air. A bus sings past, spits light, mist,
dew clings to knees and windows like a promise not kept.
People scatter; too fast for thunder, too much energy
to hold them. I collect the blur, hold it in the soft pink
of my palm: wet, round, solid as a memory, slick as a pearl
from some drowned city. Fifty years from now, in ruins,
I will lose my name to air, but not this solid moment.
Poetry in this post: © Betty Stanton
Published with the permission of Betty Stanton