#Read a #Poem Friday: Coyote Song
Coyote Song
by Marsha De La O
Inside the night, this hospital, asylum,this party for those undone by desire, foreverunslaked, inside a house inside the night,I'm inside
this house with eight beams and moonlightpulling on the past through skylights, this houseof white noise, wind and dry heat, lonelyhouse on a ridge line, house of ordinaryshame,
my sister's house with corrals and outbuildingsaround it, and beyond that, the dogpatrolling, and beyond that, skirts and foldsof the mountain rising in rumpled geologicscrolls into the range.
At the centerbeneath the moon's silence that nothingever changes, muffled in blankets with fearbeside me on my little bench of sleep,I can hear their voices,
could be three or twenty-three,unhinged saints gabbling to their shadows,or panty-sniffers, drug-trippers in all flavorspast vanilla, could be Birnam woodon the move, the shriek of its roots thirstyand air-brushed, or a pack of lunaticscrooning norteño songs.
What is certain is advent.They're coming down, coming towardsthe heart beneath the feathers,coming forwhat can't be protected,on a beam of dread,riding that ray.
I'm listening, my eyes snapped-openinside darkness, other people in other roomswho know how to sleep through a nightlike this night, thrown against the roundnessof the world which is desire.
The old bitch guards this night on the ranch,half shepherd, half other, this is her watch,she gallops the perimeter, anxious to sound likemore than one dog, though she's going arthriticand her paws strike the hard ground.
Now they quiet, penitents, lunatics,marauders and ragpickers, quiet.Only one left behind and the moon is his hieroglyph,one creature padding down the mountain,coming closer.
Coyote knows a good joke,he only wants to let her in on it.He can't stop laughing, can't stopcrying, can't stop licking the crevicesclean, licking safety and dutyuntil they're empty.
I hear the dog listening, ears lifted.Coyote's tongue slides into nightair, pressing narcotic vowels throughwonder, through longingand longing and wonder awaken. She's closeto that edge, that border in the nightwhere one thing becomes another and evenan old dog who's worked a ranch eleven yearsfeels the urge to let loose, blow this littlesettlement, go wild.
Clouds loose and blue in the armsof the moon, slant light on this mountain rakingus, the dog and I, we feel the pull. Imaginea woman trying to come betweencoyote and the female he's afterwhen she knows
what is dark and offers itself and vanisheshas come for her at last? The body wantswhat it can't have, to follow the pathof thirst through the rent in the wirebeyond the corral.
The dog doesn't move, but who knowsbetter than she the small outpostdeath has set up in her, maybe she's alldesire now to slip under the moonand chase down that lure.
Coyote wheedles and croons another minuteor two, then lopes off, calling over his shoulderin a language even I can understand,the right names for thingsnot kept in heaven.
Learn more about this awesome poet and read more of her work here.
by Marsha De La O
Inside the night, this hospital, asylum,this party for those undone by desire, foreverunslaked, inside a house inside the night,I'm inside
this house with eight beams and moonlightpulling on the past through skylights, this houseof white noise, wind and dry heat, lonelyhouse on a ridge line, house of ordinaryshame,
my sister's house with corrals and outbuildingsaround it, and beyond that, the dogpatrolling, and beyond that, skirts and foldsof the mountain rising in rumpled geologicscrolls into the range.
At the centerbeneath the moon's silence that nothingever changes, muffled in blankets with fearbeside me on my little bench of sleep,I can hear their voices,
could be three or twenty-three,unhinged saints gabbling to their shadows,or panty-sniffers, drug-trippers in all flavorspast vanilla, could be Birnam woodon the move, the shriek of its roots thirstyand air-brushed, or a pack of lunaticscrooning norteño songs.
What is certain is advent.They're coming down, coming towardsthe heart beneath the feathers,coming forwhat can't be protected,on a beam of dread,riding that ray.
I'm listening, my eyes snapped-openinside darkness, other people in other roomswho know how to sleep through a nightlike this night, thrown against the roundnessof the world which is desire.
The old bitch guards this night on the ranch,half shepherd, half other, this is her watch,she gallops the perimeter, anxious to sound likemore than one dog, though she's going arthriticand her paws strike the hard ground.
Now they quiet, penitents, lunatics,marauders and ragpickers, quiet.Only one left behind and the moon is his hieroglyph,one creature padding down the mountain,coming closer.
Coyote knows a good joke,he only wants to let her in on it.He can't stop laughing, can't stopcrying, can't stop licking the crevicesclean, licking safety and dutyuntil they're empty.
I hear the dog listening, ears lifted.Coyote's tongue slides into nightair, pressing narcotic vowels throughwonder, through longingand longing and wonder awaken. She's closeto that edge, that border in the nightwhere one thing becomes another and evenan old dog who's worked a ranch eleven yearsfeels the urge to let loose, blow this littlesettlement, go wild.
Clouds loose and blue in the armsof the moon, slant light on this mountain rakingus, the dog and I, we feel the pull. Imaginea woman trying to come betweencoyote and the female he's afterwhen she knows
what is dark and offers itself and vanisheshas come for her at last? The body wantswhat it can't have, to follow the pathof thirst through the rent in the wirebeyond the corral.
The dog doesn't move, but who knowsbetter than she the small outpostdeath has set up in her, maybe she's alldesire now to slip under the moonand chase down that lure.
Coyote wheedles and croons another minuteor two, then lopes off, calling over his shoulderin a language even I can understand,the right names for thingsnot kept in heaven.
Learn more about this awesome poet and read more of her work here.
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