Coyote

Image Credit: Kaylin Pacheco

I fell asleep a woman; I woke up a coyote. I whined a yawn; I scratched my ear; I yipped a tired: “Good morning.” My husband howled in terror; he kicked me out of bed. He chased me out the door. I dodged rocks as I fled. I’d fled before, but not as a coyote. I’d never kicked him out of bed. When we met, I was barely a woman. I wanted to wake up with him every morning; I loved his whispers in my ear. When I finally stopped running, to scratch my itchy ear, I found I’d fled into a field of morning yoga humans engrossed in downward dog. My coyote body passed unseen by a single man or woman. I snuck into the woods, where ferns became my bed. Our bed was never big enough after he whispered in my ear the type of “No” no woman, no person, should ever have to hear. I wish I’d fled after that time, but I couldn’t even move. Coyote yips ripped through the night; no “sorry” in the morning. My morning turned to afternoon as I lie in my fern bed, and my coyote ear stopped itching for the first time since I’d fled. But before I could enjoy it, I heard a hiking woman. The hiking woman found me; behind a lens, she asked about my morning. I yipped a loud: “I fled!’ She got her shot as I ran from her and my fern bed. A butterfly landed on my ear. I let her take a ride. I know life isn’t easy; I’m woman and coyote. I’d fled him as a woman, and as a coyote that fateful morning. Now, I make my bed wherever I feel safe. I yip; I howl; I hunt; no whispers in my ear.