I feel what they mean about actual love—as a child
I did a lot of kneeling in the backseat.
I’d watch what we passed
or be passed
first and sometimes be scared
Or maybe it’s more a marching band—
into the wind/ of an aisle/ to the bar/ on a south-bound/ Amtrack/ train—
all that neglect
in my oncoming childhood— maybe it went like
deep in the bends
of a country-dark road, you shift
of your stranded car—and
there—not ten feet from it—
a coyote comes
Look at him: He looks at me.
The whites of his eyes are equal teeth. That wing
of the bird he’s got in his mouth
half-eaten/ is still beating—
Copyright © Kary Wayson
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.