After writing this poem, I began to envision a whole sequence of poems about the bad boy archetype as Coyote in human form. Coyote is the trickster, the troublemaker, and yet often an ally of humans, even as he tries to seduce and exploit them. That seemed a good match for the anti-hero that the bad boy figure in literature, film, and television so often turns out to be.
COYOTE IN
BLACK LEATHER
Coyote slides
on black leather
over the
T-shirt
that reins in
biceps, shoulders, chest.
Dark jeans and
biker boots cover the rest
of his long,
lithe body as he invades
your everyday,
suburban life
like a growl.
You avert your
eyes, pretend
you don’t
watch
his tight,
hard body, his mocking face.
You know he’s
bad, doesn’t belong.
Besides,
seeing him makes your face too
red, your
breath too
short, your
bones too
soft, your
clothes too
tight. You
pretend
not to peek,
don’t want him to catch you looking
at the hungry
way he stares at you.
Coyote has no
class.
Coyote is your
secret.
You tell him
it’s more exciting that way.
He lifts the
eyebrow bisected by a scar and stares
you into
silence. He knows
you’re
ashamed. He thinks
you’re ashamed
of him.
Coyote takes
you
to dangerous
places.
In dark, dirty
bars, he threatens drunks
and fights to
protect you.
Coyote takes
you
where no one
else can.
Coyote takes
you
where you
can’t admit you want to go.
Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia
Chucha Press, 2009)
