Solitary Vice

By Valerie Wetlaufer

I loved a girl
when I was a girl,
before I knew desire
could be used against me.
I so wanted to be relevant.
Simple exchange—
bouquets of wheat.
My dirt-stained hands,
tangled hair. I never
could be prim,
in apple-pie order.
I dropped all the eggs,
licking their smear
off my hands;
wrinkled her ribbons
into my pocket,
tore pages from her books,
all for the sake
of the lonely hour.