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Coyotes, Sex, and Cartridges: Mary in the Window
The American South sits in my throat like grief.
Faded floral curtains on
Either side of a square, stained window
Brown flecks, sometimes red, like the one in
My brother’s eye—
Nobody knows where they come from.
Do you think
Eve and Lilith used to kiss?
In the garden where no one could see?
New Mexico coyotes, dug up from pond banks
Smile at me from my memories
When I think about the back-neck heat of April’s sunshine loving
And the smell of dirt, grass, and grandmother sheets.
My hand is so steady, did you know?
I’m good with a revolver, did you know?
God, did you know—churches make for sacred five-minute weddings
For the experienced
And holy first-time couplings
For the young?
Holy Mary stood outside while me and
My love
Made small-town Texas our garden;
Washed our hands in the bathroom sink
After trying something new.
Mary in the window; clothes stayed on,
I think we both knew it would happen the moment we
Drove a hundred and a half miles away from home.
The American South weighs in my chest like a wound
And reminds me that coyotes, sex, and cartridges
Are done wrong in my hands.
Dear Texas; dear America,
Ask Mary.
With coyote teeth and revolver grip, she’ll tell you what she saw, and it will sound like poetry.
Copyright ©
Scorpio Fleming
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