Coyote Gourd

Posted on November 4, 2003 in Poems

Note: I wrote this while waiting for the group to begin. The writing excited me. Some people thought I stayed away because I was estranged from the group. I was just doing this. It needs tinkering. Update: Tinkered with. Update: More tinkering.

Underhanded,

I stole you from the vine.

My justification:

private land made you free

for the taking, for feasting on the inedible,

unimpugned by ordinances.

I left the spade-shaped leaves

that shaded you from the sun,

brought only your ballooning yellow beauty

marred, though it was, by

orange smoke sores and

a long white scar.

You squat, tempting the cats

next to the keyboard

where my confidences and public confessions

pass through, off the tips

of my thieving fingers.

I would no more cut you open any more

than I would demand a secret from a stranger

or announce a found credit card number to a crowd.

If you rot and sprout

breaking your shell

I will bear you to winter-softened earth

and leave you to find your own root.

I respect you.

I will not ask where the wounds come from;

if the slash came from a knife or a sharp stone,

whether the sores broke when

a coyote tried to roll you with his nose

like a dog plays with a grape

or just from months of sloth, bedsores

from your laying in after the bloom.

You the earless one

can hear my whispered secrets.

I know that you will keep them.

We who have suffered the inexplicable

make good company for each other.