Chapbooks
Coyote
It's a long story, he said,
And propped his boot up on
A knee frayed pale as desert sky.
By his worn heel-crescent
He had come the long way round
Since I had last seen him.
Is it, I said, careful
Not to be interested.
That is the secret with
Restless spirits like Coyote:
Never to let them know
They have a hold on your soul.
He glanced out the bay window,
Where the sun was falling
Into a vaporous canyon
Whose wind-swept cloud cliffs soared
Into the soon-to-be evening,
Said, It’s a long story.
I got two cold bottles,
Put one close to his right hand,
Then popped the cap off mine,
Sniffed, and took a sip of beer.
Leaning on the chair back,
I waited, ready to listen.
He yawned, showing his long tongue,
Tilted the bottle, spoke.
Wolves died out; dogs lived with men:
Coyotes thrive on margins,
Our paws tipping garbage cans,
Mouths full of chicken bones
The seagulls and rats gorge
On the leftovers of millions
Packed like ants in their hills;
The pigeons and sparrows nest
On corporate towers:
Veterans in man’s wilderness.
Lean newcomers, we learn, too.
Hide like strays in daylight,
Go hunting after midnight
In milkweed-smothered lots
When there is nothing five-star
From the hotel dumpster.
Bottle drained, Coyote paused,
His yellow eyes expectant.
I uncapped another,
And slid it close to his hand;
Wondered if he ever slept
In one place two nights running.
As he made rings on the table
With his amber bottle,
He seemed no more than shadow:
Glass touched wood soundlessly.
I could do it now, he said,
Canines bloody with sunset.
Do what, I said, sullen.
Coyote doesn’t come often,
Or stay long; between times
I make do as best I can,
Trapped in a barren land.
My friend grinned and suddenly...
Bottom-up goes the bottle.
His tongue teases the last drop
From the rim and licks his lips.
I’ll miss that, Coyote says,
And falls, writhing from his clothes,
Shape-shifting on dingy carpet.
A hot summer evening,
The city steaming like a swamp,
Yet cold sweat soaks my shirt.
Knowing his fierce, bone-deep pain,
I swallow bitter brew
And pretend I’m not watching.
Leaping over the window sill,
He pads down the alley,
Passing a sweltering suit
That growls for no reason
Like a bear on its hind legs,
Grim and irritable.
This was Coyote’s country;
When humans came, he loaned it.
Tongue lolling past sharp teeth,
Jokester has a sucker punchline:
He will take his own back,
His curiosity sated.
If I want to see the end,
There is no time to waste.
I chug beer, toss the bottle,
Slip off shirt, shorts, and shoes;
Seek my true form on the floor,
Long-nosed, sleek-pelted, and tailed.
I stride earth beaten sour
By billions of trampling feet,
Send sparrows into flight,
And snap at a tumbling cup,
While Coyote, waiting, laughs
At the exuberant fool.
A scent of popcorn and mice
From an open theater door;
A cicada choir sings siren-shrill.
Grinning, he lifts his leg,
Marks a stop sign, scratches the grass:
Territory reclaimed.
Their heights gripped by scrub pines,
Buttes stand where there were buildings.
In carmine twilight, a hawk
Stoops and strikes among the rock doves;
A gray pouf of feathers
Drifts to the heat-baked pavement.
Three shaggy men crouched beside
A bronze lion drop brown bags,
Fall to their knees and lope off.
Their barking laughter echoes
Off a hundred concrete mesas,
And chases startled squirrels.
Darkness claims the badlands.
Where the ape-people’s lights burned
By hundreds and thousands
Between sunset and sunrise,
There is a starlit night
Waiting for a howling moon.
We sniff at each other’s tails
Then sit on our haunches
Side by side, companionable,
Wrapped in our proper scents.
I say, Finish the story.
Once, he says, there were men...
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(Catherine Mintz, Coyote, Inkpot Press, 1998)
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