Memory is a coyote,
its paws soft
as limestone powder
at the edge of the ravine
where it makes its lair.
From the safety of town,
within four walls,
wooden beams overhead,
I hear the echo of its call
under a waxing moon.
Beyond familiar boundaries,
it moves between mesquite shadows—
a shimmer of silence
with teeth.
A flash of fur,
a trick of the eye—
there was never a path,
it was the hunger
that beckoned you to follow,
what was just out of sight,
the scent of belonging
to the place you abide
without even knowing.
—Lorena Wolfman (2025)
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario