Jacqueline Powers

Coyote Genetics

Last night coyotes howled outside our window
while we argued over LSD, of all things.
The night was calm, the moon full.
I said I wanted to try it. You called me psycho.
I arched my eyebrow,
you pursed your lips. You’re insane, I said.
Besides, I’ve changed.

I swore that the heart
of an 800-pound halibut will continue beating
several weeks when extracted,
and of 4,000 salmon eggs hatched by a single
mom, only two will survive the trip
to the ocean, back upstream to spawn.

You said, man, that takes a halibut heart.

A night much like other nights. Several glasses
of red wine. I wake against your sweaty chest,
against a nest of white hairs, your hand
heavy on my hip, anchoring place,
and time.

Look at how we retrace our steps. How we mimic
each other, even ourselves.
How knowing all this, you sleep.

 

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