In the pass, fishtailing around corners, in the whiteout
of maybe and two-way traffic, I said yes

to everything. Yes to snow heavy as Ecclesiastes.
Yes to vertigo and the wheels locking up,

if it came to that. Yes to the physics of forehead
kissing glass and the hush of more snow

and whatever follows clarity—being found clean
or found out. At the truck stop all I could manage

was hunger. So I ordered a catcher’s mitt
of a cinnamon roll slathered in icing, and waited,

hunched at the counter, beside swinging kitchen doors.
That’s when she sidestepped past, her hands