Hillary Berg, Coyote (Artist Website)
Archival Inkjet Print from Kodak Portra Film
November, the black flies howl
against the windows
like the winds in Wyoming;
caught on their backs, cutting
forty-five miles an hour
through power lines.
It's hard to find strength
in something that dies, like death
is some sort of failure the weight
of a man—some wrong
glance some grit
can beat down
with slick fists, straddle
cotton-thighs-to-gut
in the sharp rock
of a dark parking lot,
let it lie till it's cold, let the
coyotes move in.
Make it think twice before
taking another swing,
Strait singing
Every Little Honky Tonk Bar
to no one but those dark teeth
shifting in their mammoth sleep.