The Coyotes

are having the night.

They yip and yip

and near. I imagine

the smell and sounds

of their many expressions

of gland, paw & incisor

repeating, close as moon beams

cutting through my nylon.

What they’re having

isn’t about me or mine. 

But they’re having it

on the same side of the river

where I woke

from dreaming

about her again. 

I think I love what cannot know me

the most or deepest. 

Or I imagine this

to be true. And they can probably smell this

from my pits and groin

when they become aware I am here.

And, not up to me, they’ll have this too.

---

MARCUS MYERS lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where he teaches and serves as the founding and managing editor of Bear Review. Author of the chapbook Cloud Sanctum (Bottle Cap Press, 2022), his poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from The Common, The Cortland Review, The Florida Review, Hunger Mountain, Jet Fuel Review, The Laurel Review, Mid-American Review, Poetry South, RHINO, Salt Hill, Tar River Poetry, Windfall Room and elsewhere.

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