In the freezing winter of our dissolution,
when his engine block cracked
in the Ford Econoline van,      fracturing our sanity,  
making our lawn a weeds cemetery,
coyotes saved us with their Hallelujah! chorus.

I heard divinity in their mournful howls,
“Please!
just a half-eaten hot dog bun,
anything your fat bulldog won’t eat.”

Then we foraged together. I saw God’s eyes
watching benevolently
when we cymbaled garbage can lids together,
knowing raccoons would get the blame.

My wisdom teeth fell out,
but I didn’t miss them. I embraced the dry socket.
and dreamed of planting third molars.
I hoped they would turn into dandelions.

When spring thaws came, the shy wild dogs left us for low lying mountains,
something in us went, too.  

We needed some new distraction. None came.
Our winter became a thing from long ago.
The dead grass is still dead.
I’m waiting.

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit:Priss Enri

Trish Saunders poetry and short fiction has been in Visual Verse, The American Journal of Poetry, Rye Whiskey Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Off The Coast Literary Review, and others. She lives in Seattle.