My husband’s soul
flies on a bullet,
and widowhood
becomes

a limping hare.

Coyotes come sniffing,
trickster grins
flashing silver
on streetlamp corners.

Soft words—
baited breath—
tongues lingering
on promises of
safety and comfort.

Their eyes
stalk my daughter,
and trace the
curve of my thighs—

With a broken suitcase
and four-foot-eleven inches
that outpace the hunt,
we flee a desert
to a new country.

Now and then,
coyotes come prowling—
but the hare
has become
a trickster.

I growl and bare my teeth—

my daughter pulls her lips back—
and tests the trill.