In the hills the coyotes chatter
and wail like hysterical women
under the full moon, descending
in the predawn to snuffle
the house foundation and pad
the wet grass as they roam
for cats. I hear them
circle and pant. But what
they smell, what scent
they've caught, is the rotting
carcass of our marriage. They wait,
patient for opportunity, while
we conduct our business, and ignore
the silent, leering corpse.
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