Coyote Fire

At night he trots over rooftops, leaves scat
on the porch, sets the screen door swinging.

It’s the cat he wants, but I give him water
in a bowl the color of the moon.

I’ve built my house on his creek,
untangled the trees in his forest.

Now I drink from his bowl,
offer my fingers for him to lick—

he circles and snaps
at the back of my thigh.

I am the creek bed crackling with drought,
the tinder for his yellow eyes—

I am wild, his wild,

first appeared in Ekphrasis

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