Through the night comes the Coywolf cry.
Those white eyes, those white eyes shine
through the night.
Mama raccoon strains Kit to her bosom
with a convulsive grasp.
She lay on the September straw.
The strokes of the teeth impale and damn him
yet she chooses to lick the wounds.
Derisively, laughing, ringing the the body
With slanky strides, the Coywolf
surrounds the dilapidated squat
beneath the swamp grapes.
Mama’s gaunt faint pride splintered.
She saw nothing, she felt nothing,
till dimly, as in a dream, she saw what I never believed,
the rusty teeth.
The rank and file shiftlessly damned them
under the northern scuppernongs.
Even in death, her leg encircled him with an unrelenting clasp, as if she could not even then be beguiled of her vigilant hold.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in nature, poem, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Coywolf

  1. amabear says:

    although i don’t really understand the plot/narrative thread/story, i love the language and the southern gothic feeling of this. very cool.


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