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Spring 2008
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Elizabeth
Weir, a 2005 SASE/Jerome grant winner and twice a finalist for the Loft
Mentor program, has had poetry published recently in Alimentum,
Out of Line
Press and Water~Stone
Review.
Elizabeth Weir
Coyotes
I idle at the bedroom window and
see two rag piles, dropped
in morning snow. One moves.
Pulls out a nose; snuffs the air.
It stands up and stretches front
then back legs, ashy tail curling.
It shakes off night, and trots confidant
onto the wastes of the winter-stiff lake.
The second pile rouses. This land
has always been theirs.
We just pay the taxes. I hear
our tender grandbaby stir in her crib.
The coyote cocks a proprietary leg
against our maple. Glances towards
the house. Balances on three
legs to scratch his feral jaw.
I picture summer and our baby
crawling on the clover lawn.
Dread erupts--red as fang-torn flesh.
I fling up the sash and clap
and yell into frozen air; the baby
startles and cries. The coyote
tips his head, ears flicking
to catch her cry. Lopes
to the woodland edge—stops.
Turns. Half-hidden behind
a butternut trunk, he lips
a canny grin at me.