Not pink yet, she: bloody red.
Not one to be held back, she, even by the host’s noose,
even by constraints of brute geometry.
Her universe distended, tore and bled for her.
Thus the advent of the smallest unstoppable force:
wee Alba hurled through the plate glass into life,
now fixes us with a blue gaze,
her raised arms encompassing it all,
and says “I am an old soul. I’m back now.”