the girl at the table next to mine
lets the wolf across from her
feed her platitudes
leans forward
spine bending in a placating arch
when he tells her there is art in her tragedy
how could she not know beauty is pain
when it is the hunger that drives her
starving for pretty words
that will not fill the cavities in her chest
still she will devour them
with a desperation even the wolf
has not tasted before
folding them up for safekeeping
to take up the space
she will not allow herself to occupy
so that when she finally climbs
into the wolf’s mouth
pulls the jaws closed over her head
he will not know
that he has swallowed
a crossword corpse
a creature of syllabic bones
strung together by a vacant
brittle
once-was