David Prasad CC
Coyote can’t cross the arroyo.
Why would he want to? Nothing
howls on that side of the expanse.
The beetles do what they do in
a state of constant bulge, all carapace
and striving. The tall ones leave
their garbage as earthwork mosaics
and levies against flash floods--
unlike the beetles, they go where
they’re not allowed. If he had
their thumbs, he would be an ace
archaeologist. Rabbits are limited
to this one side. It works out. When
the solstice moon is in perigee,
the arroyo opens up to Coyote.
Rattlesnake says, “Bro, you sure?”
His words come as a coil. Coyote’s
head swivels toward the reptile. He
can say, “Hah, hah, hah”—all exhale.
Lunar mirror pulls out desert pink
confluence. The Antelope Valley
Line car clacks into Glendale. Coyote
reads a perfume ad scrolling by,
tucks a woolly tuft into his sleeve.
Watch says 5:28 a.m.—24 hours left.
Young female catches his eye. His human
mouth smiles. This could be a problem.
Sara Comito is author of Bury Me in the Sky (Nixes Mate, March 2020) and a construction worker in Fort Myers, Florida. She is a poetry editor for Bending Genres. Her poetry and prose has been published or is forthcoming in The NIght Heron Barks, The Tampa Review, XRAY, and Misfit Magazine. Find her on Twitter @comito_writes.
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