Sarah Kersey
Coyote Song in G Minor
Off-key, the coyotes cry the song from my childhood
piano recital into the deepening night. Under the two
-thirds moon, their falsettos summon anyone
whose urge
to scream back is a gentle balloon rising in the
throat, tied
to a tongue. I don’t know which part of me responds
to this
song, this testament to childhood: the animal or
the agony.
[Mt first heartbreak tasted like moths]
My first heartbreak tasted like moths:
death fluttered in the hollows of
my cheeks, dust collected in my gums
while tiny wings went on a futile hunt
for light. The fissures in my heart started
months before the end, in that darkness
where language escaped me and silence
bred more chaos. When you finally left
me (your one act of mercy), every lightbulb
shattered. I’m still picking wings and glass
out of my teeth all these years later and
I resent that I can’t seem to erase all traces
of you, that I once mistook a burning
house for an emerging sunrise.
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