Coyote by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Coyote

The moon leans into our teepee.
Tonight, she is half full and bright
enough for me to see the shape of
my hand in the dark. My sister Coyote
is awake, turning and tossing, her sighs
uneven and loud. I stare across the teepee
through the grey night at the one who
makes tomatoes grow and bees hum,
who calls the stars by name and tells
time using shadows and sun; Coyote
who once gave me a thunderstone and
told me how even though the black
and grey rock outside was strong,
the sparkly purple crystals inside
were fragile and that’s what made
it so special. She is the one who
crouches near the door and stares
through the flap to the world outside.
She is listening to the bees, tucked
into their hives for the night.
A breeze lifts the corner of the flap,
bringing in scents of ripe blackberries
and warm honey. Her attention is
turned to the night meadow. Coyote’s
the one who tells me silver diamonds
rain from the hole in the ceiling; and
she is a fountain, a spray, a rush of
invisible moon-flakes. I remember
her rainbow aura before she had left
by sunrise, how it glowed around her
before evaporating in the cool morning.

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem is mostly surreal, but always useful, allowing the question of Coyote’s identity to quietly slip into the reader’s mind.

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