But let me explain–there is this
disobedient coyote who lives
in my throat, howling for skin like the moon.
Tonguing broken teeth for the nerve
that’s connected to the scream bone.

She believes in open windows for altars.
The black pagan desert of the skies.

I have tried, believe me, to trim
her elegant toenails, build a fence that would
echo-proof these plains. But, goddamn,
she can wail steel bars into cattails
and my lips are not barbed wire. They part
like the sky to her monsoons.

Like all predators, she is born when breath meets skin.
She is tectonic breakdance. Aftershock bliss.
I’m sorry if the sound of crumbling foundations
keeps you awake all night.

The Dark Undone

By D. R. Haney

Memoir

Macbeth

The thought came to me when I was fifteen and trying to sleep on New Year’s Eve. Nothing I recall had happened to incite it. I’d spent the night babysitting my younger siblings while my mother attended a party, and she returned home around one in the morning and everyone went to bed. (My parents had divorced, though they continued to quarrel as if married.) My brother was sleeping in the bunk below mine, and as I stared at the ceiling and listened to the house settle, I thought: Why don’t you go into the kitchen and get a knife and stab your family to death?