July Westhale

the desert is metal

Tonight at dusk the runtiest coyote
stared me deadass in the eye
and started limping. Oh no.
Like all men, he regards me
As a fucking idiot. That I know
nothing about his band of friends
crouched in the scrub, teeth wet,
waiting for my give. He looks
at me and believes in what he sees.
And why not? Someone should
get to move through this world
powered by their sheer conviction in it.
O, I do at times want to be this woman
the animal thinks I am:
urgent and champing for crucifixion,
so sinless I heave with it,
swollen for the want of salvation,
so dumbly rich with almsgiving I seek
the desert out, just to spend my supply.
Would that I was worthy. Would
that the world warranted it.

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