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Again in June, "Half Year
Birthday," this one's called.

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I can't move, I stand
upwind and still.

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The coyote drinks at
a leaking pipe shrill

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laughter of a pack
echoing off last night.

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I know that space is
convoluted and turns on itself.

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What is a wild dog 30
feet from our porch?

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An entrance to a
cryptic animal world?

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My legs so bruised, I haul
it with me hot day after day.

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She turns holds me transfixed
in her black and white frame.

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At the mom moment
of congruence, we

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stand in fear of
traps and poisons

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protecting ourselves
with daylight.

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Now moving, she limps toward
me as if I weren't there.

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A body for a moment outside
time and holds her pace

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to the chaparral, a gift I had.

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I am 27 and a half,
lame as the coyote,

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I know the others
would kill her.