Four nights now spent crying in the bushes. 
            Four plates crowded on my hands just before, 
placing food on the table.
            My daughter weeps in secret, too. I think
it is about a boy.
            She is fourteen. I     
remember well, loving so openly then. 
            Now I am rain 
inside a jar, I am        
            the arm adored for wiping window panes.
Why don’t you tell him? I ask one day, 
            standing in her door. She looks scared, turns her head.
Why are there leaves in your hair? is all 
            she says.
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