Spell with a Coyote

 

I wake to her howl—a mother

hearing the thunderclap of an infant.

 

She wails at a hangnail in the sky tonight.

Love has lost its root like tiny teeth,

 

and I’m waiting for the fang.

Even when all was blunted, I gnashed.

 

When I walk in the middle of the night,

I think someone is with me, I think

 

there’s blood on my feet. No,

I’m alone, no, it’s only the red, red earth.


Anne Champion is the author of Reluctant Mistress (Gold Wake Press, 2013), The Good Girl is Always a Ghost (Black Lawrence Press, 2018) and The Dark Length Home (Noctuary Press, 2017). Her work appears in Verse Daily, Prairie Schooner, Epiphany Magazine, Salamander, New South, Redivider, PANK Magazine, and elsewhere. She was a 2009 Academy of American Poets Prize recipient, a 2016 Best of the Net winner, and a Barbara Deming Memorial Grant recipient. She currently teaches writing and literature in Boston, MA. http://anne-champion.com

 Next Poem

Back to Table of Contents