Coyote Suite

Roadkill

Dry outline at the side

of the highway, you rest

lightly, as though exempt

from gravity, long bones

sudden in the blunt slant of evening

sun, cunning head inclined

as though listening, teeth

gleaming in death’s wanton

grin. The dry grass stirs

in the small wind.

Your coat is still

elegant but your eyes are empty, gone

as dreams. Dreamless, I study

your fearsome limbs. So sharp, so quick

night comes

Coyote’s Take on Tires

Don’t think I’m over because I’m run

over. I always was thin,

now I’m just thinner. This way

I don’t waste time

on shelter or prey, this way I’m free: Pure speed

and God’s deadly eye.

You think I’m done for, a hair

mask with eye-holes and fangs

honed by wind. The fact is

I can run anywhere, including

your moribund mind.

Now the pale hills

of your dreams will resound

with my calls and the calls

of my kind … I double-dog dare you

to turn

around.

Coyote Night

As often happens lately, you wake

with the moon’s cool weight

on your eyes. You open them

and find yourself

dressed in its shift

of light. What is there

to lose? You rise

and move past the shapes

of furniture and cushioned

dreamers, lead on by a song

of teeth and stars, by a dance

of glamorous hungers.

Freed of the grid

of others you are swifter and more

angular and beyond

houses, with their satisfied prayers

and pious driers, their upright

doors. By the time you’re slinking past the grain

elevators, you’re on all

fours, you can smell everything from the green

grocer’s garbage to the vicar’s miscarriage

of faith, all of which, at this dead

hour, is stuff you can run

with, maddened

runner that you are.

In the morning you wake with your hair

snarled and your clothes, which are no longer

familiar,

in tatters.

More and more often this occurs.

Myth: Coyotes Have no Conscience

You think you believe this

because of their yellow eyes

and stealthy ways, and because anyone

who sees one sees himself

as calories: Not pretty

but at least it satisfies.

Like all myths, however, this one, while

easy, is inaccurate. There’s a difference,

after all,

between no conscience

and no regrets.

Why Coyotes are Unpopular

The official line is that they steal, though

they have no concept

of the criminal. For them it all boils down

to chew and swallow, and in a pinch

they’ll settle for dead or even

vegetable. Mostly they want

to eat, and are not moral.

The real reason is they’re invisible,

a scribble of frost

or lust, and they’re twisted: they don’t care

if it’s cold or

their bed is hard, and

they’re never bored: after all, they own the moon

and they don’t need rings

to keep it, or deeds,

or even words.

In contrast to which, we channel-

surf and hoard. No wonder

we fear them: the fuckers are out there

and they’re not scared.

Myth: Coyotes will lure other animals to their death

In fact: coyotes could care

less. Here’s a question: Could it be

your own fears, those sorrowful secrets

and carefully concealed

desires that caused the rumors?

Maybe it’s the idea

that unnerves you: the thought

that that voice in the hills could be heard

and answered by your very cells;

you’re scared your careful life

would drown

in such a welcome … maybe it’s not them

but you

that’s the problem.

Ethics Coyote-Style

Coyotes are amoral as well

as omnivorous. How else

could they stay so healthy?

For them the good is what pleases,

which, like them,

covers a fair territory.

Things they’re pleased by: Chickens,

dark nights, not getting

caught, or

barely.

They prefer clear weather, each

other, and an atmosphere

of moderate hilarity.

How Coyotes are Like Poets

Or maybe it should be: How poets

are like coyotes, either way, there’s a hell

of a similarity.

Consider the coat,

which in both cases is gray

and fraying, perfect

for covert spying, and cut

from the best.

Then there’s the grin, which

could mean they’re listening,

or just considering

how you’re going

to taste.

Mostly though, it’s the tendency to thrive

on anything from pain

to what others would call

stolen, and like the proverb

says, being the ones to laugh

last.

Myth: Coyotes Kill for Fun

It depends

what you call fun. Staying alive,

for example, might

come under that heading, though

some may disagree.

It’s true that they kill

when hungry, which is mostly,

and which may or may not

be fun. In addition, coyotes know

what side their bread

is buttered on, and they’re masters

of jubilation.

(On the other hand you,

with your weight and your heavy

thoughts neither kill

nor are joyful. Which, in the end,

is more cruel?)

How Coyotes are Like Women

Can’t see it? The comparison lies in

the claws, and in the response

to meat.

In both cases the claws help them

navigate, as well as scare

others, the longer and meaner

the better, though women,

with their files and fake blood

painted on, take this further.

Like other creatures, these two

are intent on survival, and for both

this means catching whatever

is available, preferably

while it’s still

mobile. In this battle,

which is mortal, women

will pretend

to be friends, while coyotes

merely kill.

Myth: Coyotes will eat anything

This one presumes there’s something the matter

with scavengers. One thing about garbage,

it gives you a great sense of humor,

and these guys are laughing

all the way to the banquet

on yours.

Furthermore: Coyotes don’t bother

with bread-and-butter letters. Sneak

and slither, quick teeth

on a neck

and that’s dinner: saves hours.

And the best part? Nobody

bugs them about their manners.

Trickster

This one started out

normal, except

for one distinction. Unlike the others,

with their husbands and Easy-ovens full

of buns, she

was barren and therefore

had no choice but to pay

attention.

She became so attentive even rumors

passed through her, even the moon,

and anyone near her

smelled winter.

They say one night

she heard the wild dogs’ avid

verbs, and her eyes narrowed with cold

answers.

The last time she was seen,

she was pure

speed with an infrared

attitude, and moving

beyond words. Before

anyone could get closer, she snarled

and disappeared

How Coyotes are like You

Or you could say: the same as. In both cases

stringy comes to mind, sheer

willpower with knots

in it, not how you thought

you’d turn out, but

it gets you through.

Both of you can choke almost anything

back and still grow; the trick, for them

and for you, is not to look at the menu, even

though they can see in the dark, which

you now can, too.

Then there’s the shared grin, complete

with canines

and the accomplished coldyellow eyes

of hunger.

Once again you return to your single

lair as the short day flares

and is over. The grin

becomes wilder.

Metamorphosis

This is the way it will be: One day

you will walk out

as usual and down

the cold road with its ruts

and fucked sunsets, and you will not

come home.

Instead you will learn

to navigate

rain, you will understand the meanings

of green, and your hands, which were formerly

nouns, will turn back

into weapons.

There will be no more mirrors, and even

if there were, you would no longer recall

how to read one. Smell

and skill will be beautiful, and the best way to look

will be invisible.

You will be all appetite,

and not stoppable.

Wile E.

Coyote is nothing but a gap

in the landscape, which is itself

a gap, or what you hope

is one, a blip

in the curve: you are a city

person. To the city, certainly, you

will return, it’s all about

intention. In the meantime several prairie

grasses can be identified: satin

grass. Buffalo grass. Panic

grass. To name is to remember: I name, therefore I

am

walking the gone railway

line between Three Hills and Acme

at evening, you sense something calm and uncompromising

in the interstices between

grasses, something that came from that place before

names. You shiver. What name

do you give something that is both there and not

there? You were never meant

to be here, yet here

you are.

Now one eye isolates itself

from its green background and you want

to run but: don’t

run. Panic can become

chronic. Instead hold

your ground. Maintain eye

contact. Above all don’t respond

with fear. And consider

if you dare: It’s only after the same names

you are: food, shelter, power. More

than once lately

you’ve seen an equally alien eye

in the mirror.

Coyote Bones

A season later you’re still

there, though by now

you’ve thinned to a xylophone

ribs for the wind

to play on. Still grinning, you seem amused

by its alien tunes.

O Mr. Bones,

One of these nights I’ll look up

and there you’ll be, a riff

of light in the semi-

formal sky, a constellation worthy

of applause.

Anyone would envy that style

of yours, minimal and swift

as your elegant murders, a flash

of teeth and claws adding jazz

to the rhythm

of the stars.