Thursday, April 28, 2016

National Poetry Month--Coyote at Your Wedding

"Coyote at Your Wedding," the 9th and penultimate poem in the sequence of Coyote poems I've posted for #NationalPoetryMonth, brings this particular narrative of Coyote to an end. The final poem is a commentary on the class situation of the bad boy/Coyote archetype, and the way the deck is stacked against such people (and even supernatural beings).


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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