Confession by Coyote

And just like that, a switch
is thrown. The moon clicks on—
illuminates the open spaces

while under shrub and fallen log
stays dark—my places

where the turkey hides
her eggs and newborns congregate.
Bless me, I have sinned,

have taken in the weak,
howled, and celebrated. I can't

say it won't happen again.
A lunacy comes over me,
and I become the best coyote.

My band played Hallelujah
last night. Baffled, you listened

to Delilah's snip of hair, saw
Bathsheba bathe in holy dark,
tasted the cold and broken hallelujah.

Couldn't you rearrange wild into praise?

back to issue

D. Walsh Gilbert is the author of Ransom (Grayson Books, 2017). A Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Café Review, Montana Mouthful, Ekphrastic Review, Exit 13, Third Wednesday, Canary, and the anthology, Waking Up to the Earth: Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis, among others. She serves on the board of the non-profit, Riverwood Poetry Series, and as co-editor of the Connecticut River Review. She lives in a rural setting in Connecticut with her husband and two old dogs.