Again in June, "Half Year Birthday," this one's called.
I can't move, I stand upwind and still.
The coyote drinks at a leaking pipe shrill
laughter of a pack echoing off last night.
I know that space is convoluted and turns on itself.
What is a wild dog 30 feet from our porch?
An entrance to a cryptic animal world?
My legs so bruised, I haul it with me hot day after day.
She turns holds me transfixed in her black and white frame.
At the mom moment of congruence, we
stand in fear of traps and poisons
protecting ourselves with daylight.
Now moving, she limps toward me as if I weren't there.
A body for a moment outside time and holds her pace
to the chaparral, a gift I had.
I am 27 and a half, lame as the coyote,
I know the others would kill her.