The secret flaw
is loneliness--
snow shovels collect
dust through warm winters
like old dolls packed
in garbage bags.
How many years
I've tried to grow plants
inside, the roots always
outgrow the mead pots,
straddling soil and air,
the way, now, I only kiss
in doorjambs, hedging
my inside with out,
making mornings easier.
After all, I've grown
accustomed to throwing
things out
and my loneliness--
what more could a young woman want?
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