The Coyote Dreams Caught Me
       

in that weary first trimester.
He taught me to be quiet,
to be loyal, to detect
every minute movement.

We wandered,
his retinue in the shadows,
me a step behind,
except one night.

The nape of my neck cradled in his jaws,
his breath redolent of carrion and blackberries,
we stood among rushes,
locked together for seven minutes.

My daughter arrived with spiky,
fulvous hair, a bump over her coccyx
that proved to be innocent,
and uncommonly large pupils.

She ran as soon as she walked.
Yesterday, her friends followed
her on all fours, growling. I can't
leave raw meat out on the counter.

She hears my every move,
but I don't hear her get up at night,
just find her at the window,
watching.

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Copyright © 2019 Michelle Morouse All rights reserved
from Pembroke Magazine
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission