Coyotes, Sex, and Cartridges: Mary in the Window

The American South sits in my throat like grief. Faded floral curtains on Either side of a square, stained window Brown flecks, sometimes red, like the one in My brother’s eye— Nobody knows where they come from. Do you think Eve and Lilith used to kiss? In the garden where no one could see? New Mexico coyotes, dug up from pond banks Smile at me from my memories When I think about the back-neck heat of April’s sunshine loving And the smell of dirt, grass, and grandmother sheets. My hand is so steady, did you know? I’m good with a revolver, did you know? God, did you know—churches make for sacred five-minute weddings For the experienced And holy first-time couplings For the young? Holy Mary stood outside while me and My love Made small-town Texas our garden; Washed our hands in the bathroom sink After trying something new. Mary in the window; clothes stayed on, I think we both knew it would happen the moment we Drove a hundred and a half miles away from home. The American South weighs in my chest like a wound And reminds me that coyotes, sex, and cartridges Are done wrong in my hands. Dear Texas; dear America, Ask Mary. With coyote teeth and revolver grip, she’ll tell you what she saw, and it will sound like poetry.