A breakable girl won’t set a trap for food
much less know how to make one. But she
does want to know how to make one. Just
in case she’s thrown to the wolves one day,
snowed in on the freeway, hungry, cold,
fighting for something other than water,
other than living as long as water holds out.
No other riders sit this fenced-in ghosted
concrete because no one else could find it
who tried after she herself crossed under
the clouds. There are such things as white
wolves, but she’ll die before she’d set the
trap if she knew how to make it and set it.
She’ll die before the white wolf sees her
and she sees it through eyes locked onto
eyes. She won’t know what’s in those eyes,
but the white wolf will know what’s in hers,
no matter if she whispers, or wimpers, for
communion. It will know that in the end,
when the snow is gone and the water dries
and the girl survives, and the white wolf dies
by another force…
it will know the girl was breakable.