Coyote
       

Coyote followed me
to my car, followed me
past the tumbleweeds, past
the wagon wheel splayed
like a heart in the desert
weeds—cooing baby, sweet
thing, circling to my back. Said he knows
a place we can be alone. Said he wants
to tell me a story.

I'd heard about this one's long
tail, his quick tongue, and I said
he'd best shut his mouth
so I could drive.

What if he took me
beneath the water tower
and never said a word? What if
I rode him hard in the backseat
of that sedan, or hooked my boots
over his shoulders, told him
to lick each one, heel to tip?
Coyote, I can make
my own stories, will make
and make long after you've run dry.

Mama warned of those that bite:
mosquito, rattler, coyote.
Mama, be damned. Your daughters
all got teeth, too.

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Copyright © 2017 Dana Koster All rights reserved
from Binary Stars
Carolina Wren Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission