Coyotes
       

Their howls rip sleep in two. Night's gone into labor,
breathes jagged air. Later: sadness rises and falls in curtains.

The other day a neighbor caught a pair of coyotes
drinking moonlight out of her swimming pool.

They were unmoved by her symphony of clanging pots.
Now she keeps her kids inside, subscribes to the sunshine channel.

I once loved a man who loved the sound of coyotes.
We rode nightly on that rollercoaster of crescendo and rest.

There was a kind of magic in it
but I knew if I followed the sound to its source

I'd emerge into a clearing of complete emptiness,
fall forever in zero's black hole.

My ex-love says the coyotes aren't singing loneliness at all—
that my origami silhouettes are only echoes of lullabies.

Fold words into cranes. Knit sound into sequence
and hold its shadow up against tomorrow's blank slate sky.

Watch how the dark flutter of notes makes meaning
seem bigger than it really is. Watch how night washes time clean.

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Copyright © 2014 Lori Lamothe All rights reserved
from Trace Elements
The Aldrich Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission