I hear the wings first, thumping like an irregular heartbeat. A ruby-breasted robin panic-flaps against the heat-cracked concrete. Twists, jerks, unable to take flight. Happy yellow daffodils sing in the foreground & I, unfeathered, & arrogant intervene—grab the roughened tip of a stick. Steady it back on trembling legs. For a moment, I succeed. It looks at me, gracious head tilted on crooked…

You left molars & a mason jar of fermented rage. No note. No ghost. Each morning I examine the collective wisdom of your dislodged teeth. I am haunted by decaying ivory & rancid quiet. When I ask the sun to stop smiling, she declines. Flaunts marmalade beams across darkening sky. Dances solo. Grins. Love rarely conquers anything. Danielle Coffyn (she/her) is a Belgian-American poet and writer.…

Coyote cries at twilight, honey thick, marrow deep. Her heart-howl a whistle of want. Here in the San Luis Valley beauty is a sun-bleached bison skull buried in the superbloom. Death is alive— cleaved heart, stripped bone. Desire dying for survival. Danielle Coffyn (she/her) is a Belgian-American poet and writer. She is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize and author of If Adam Picked the Apple,…

his lemon liver glows, bloated behind translucent skin. Even now, his eyes worry for my sadness. These bones hunger for joy. I cannot feed them. Heart-sick famine refuses every pill. My lungs, beer-battered catfish, once golden & crisp, soften into soggy mess. Time, molds, like a sun-ripened tomato. I gnaw & gnash honeyed rot, each day hungrier than the last. Danielle Coffyn (she/her) is a…

The same week the car breaks down, we both fear unemployment. I treat the house for lice & melancholy, strip sheets & darkness from winter beds. Stroll the neighborhood each morning; palms parched for apricot laughter. We are in a drought, this joyless earth transformed by pocked concrete & ghost grass. A weekend escape to the Smoky Mountains reawakens resilience. Trout-lilies & violets, bossy…