After All
by Anina Robb


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?






Copyright © 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.