Her footsteps rattled, gum at the
bottom of an empty coke can,
aluminum trinkets and dead flavors
stuck inside her veins.
Broken bones stuffed underneath fabric,
she was unethical, crooked lines
on a coordinate plane.
We loved her as we sketched her
into lab notebooks, adding sides and angles,
calculations of theology blackening in
her eyes. She was a mess of chance,
and we were trying to collect the probability of
her landing in our laps
or sticking by our side.
Fascination with pre-images does
not become a married wife.
