Year of the Coyote

by Bill Neumire

Upstairs my wife sleeps
in our room at room temperature
with a bed that conforms
to her body. Inside her
our daughter blooms a face.
To be truthful,
I've always wanted to die
fighting off an intruder,
I confess to the dog.
Then I heave the ball
with my arthritic arm
& watch her eaten
by the evening.
I feel apologetic now.
I feel soft & faded & used.
Rumor has it, one coyote
crossed the bridge into Cape Cod
without being detected.
He will kill my dog
if it supposes it owns any share
of the night. Far off
there are shots & shouts
& the light falls in waves
before it's too late. Howlers
of the first voice. Eaters
of everything. It's too late now.

Bill Neumire's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Laurel Review, American Poetry Journal, Hollins Critic, and Salamander. In addition to writing, he currently serves as an assistant editor for Brickhouse Books, as well as the literary magazines Verdad and Fiddleback.