19
this is how you
love a coyote
Melissa Nigro
First, he catches your eye at a roadside bonfire off Highway 101. Your daughter is asleep in the car, curled up on the backseat; she’s used to sleeping in unusual places. You keep one eye on the dim silhouette of the Impala and the other on the stranger. He lurks, a flicker at the edge of the firelight. You note his mischief mouth, his peaked eyebrows, the scars on his hands. I know this kind of man, you think, but you are ready to know him again.
Second. He smells like fire and pine. He doesn’t kiss you but nips at your chin, hands wandering lower, and lower. He slips between you. He nudges his way inside. The moon is full and round and you resist the urge to yip, to howl.
Third. Something about him erases all your usuals. You are on the ground, against a tree, in a field of tall grass. You are under him and over him. You are pulling at his hair and he is scratching at your back. Stars wheel overhead and you forget the names of the constellations.