The Wolf Gives Red a Rose

Gaia Rajan

and lightning escapes her jawless throat,
the town quiet as a hand clapped over a mouth—

and he knows she will end him. He is lucky:
best dog in the pack. The others look to him for permission

to bark. In her cottage, Red’s grandmother lights a candle
on the photos, sharpens her teeth, pulls up her quilt.

Let’s start over. There is a girl always told stay
safe, who shrouded a cloak over her skin soft

and lethal. And a wolf who tore smiles in throats,
picked brambles from the roses. Sure, he’s lucky,

you can have him clean, a legend, the kind of man
no one suspects. She forgets about her grandmother.

They buy rings, stare into each other’s eyes.
He brushes her hair back, the ring grazing her cheek;

in July, she knows he’ll backhand her with it. She
has forgotten she can leave. Considers everything:

silence, drowning, burial. Every possible story—
girl dies to a howl. Girl stares into the open glow

of her phone until it becomes the moon. Girl turns herself
blue and unlikely in someone’s mouth, girl takes back

the rose, girl is running, girl
is running, girl is running.