Coyote and Pele

by Carolyn Dunn

I.

Well

he's back.

Last night

I dreamt about

coconut trees

and warm wind

on a lanai

of banana branches.

Somewhere

in my island murmuring

he was there.

Out of place,

mind you,

that old Coyote

he gets around.

Did you know

he could swim?

I saw his dark eyes

watching

in a silent space

behind the palm leaves

and trade winds

in my hair

pressing at the catalayas

sweet behind my ear.

When I awoke

2 glowing eyes in the darkness

outside my sliding

glass door.

I was Pele

in my dream

so invited him in

this burning inside

Coyote and his eyes

at war

with my insides.

II.

In the frozen dark

two eyes glowing

at the silent space

of my sliding glass door.

His breath appears

spreading

fading

spreading

his breath

following mine.

By the light of the darkest night

of the year

I move up from the warmth

of my bed,

reach across the wood

floor upon padded silence

and push open,

his fur

brushes the hem

of my nightshirt

touching my ankles

like butterfly wings.

I return to the warmth

under the blue blanket of stars

his nose cold

upon my cheek

and in my dreams

I am smiling

but in my sleep

I am not.

Coyote

a distant space between us

his hair

upon my breasts

the scent of hothouse chickens

upon my lips.

III.

I woke this morning

the sun had barely

reached beyond

the fire tipped clouds.

My bed was warm

the air around me — cold.

I rose, shut the door,

moving back under the star quilt,

feeling the warm space

Coyote had occupied

now cold

and touched the hothouse blood

still warm

upon the narrow

imprint

of his lips.