COYOTE AT
YOUR WEDDING
He left his
shotgun in the car,
though he
longed to storm
through the
doors and aim
a blast at
the groom’s head.
He has no
invitation,
of course,
and hopes
some fool
tries to
make him
leave. He’s
a black-leather thunderhead
among the
white flowers.
He wants to
make a scene,
commit a
crime, scandalize
the guests,
bloody
the groom’s
nose, carry off
the bride
kicking and screaming.
As he walks
through the crowd,
the invited
ones move
to give him
space
as they
would any wild predator
stalking
through the church.
Trouble
swirls around him,
creating a
wake
of racing
hearts
and
choked-back squeals.
He wants
to smash
the flowers,
throw food
at the walls,
rip the
bridesmaid’s
dresses,
curse the minister.
He’s
looking but can’t find you
because
you’re waiting
off scene
for your musical cue
to enter in
procession.
Coyote
drops hard
into an
aisle seat
in the back
row
where he
can grab you
and take
off when you come in reach.
He props
one boot
on the back
of the seat in front
to block
anyone else’s access
to his row.
He doesn’t know
he’s
sitting on the groom’s side.
Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha
Press, 2009)
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