January 04, 2012
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.