I don’t remember the coyote
          or how I woke here
          not remembering my body
          or the shape that your hand
          left inside me. Desire
          on the nightstand
          like an empty claw
          and the candle
          reflected in the dark
          glass behind the curtain.
          And beyond that, the sound
          of coyotes in the tree line,
          enemies of the empty trees.
          A flame always reflects
          the edge of leaving–unreason,
          an animal. Everything
          always leaves.
          But nothing ever really.
          It’s morning and a coyote
          crouches in the meadow
          grass, leaping,
          hunting mice.
SARAH MESSER’s third book, Dress Made of Mice, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press. She divides her time between Wilmington, North Carolina and Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she works at White Lotus Farms. She also directs One Pause Poetry, a reading series and audio archive. You can read her poem “Poisoned Mouse” as well as her essay about composing the poem as part of our “Why Write?” series, here.