Coyote Days
by Madeline Felt
This summer, the water dried down
and all the children’s bodies
were mangled by the sun.
Of course, it happened every July,
the crashing and
Burning. Heat-stroked coyotes
roamed the uninhabited, glowing yellow.
We ate each other to stay alive. They ate us, too.
Afterward, I took you back to my place, where
we counted each others ribs and decided
God was a liar.
I dusted flies from your sun bleached hair,
listened to you say everything’s dried up out here
I said the summer don’t stop.
We looked out at the wasteland and whatever was
above the wasteland,
Watched the coyotes eat. I envied them
because they’ll never know suffering. You said
They’ll never know laughter, either.
You discovered a fruit stand peddling
mediocre oranges and overripe blackberries,
the summer is sickly sweet.
Each one sits like fire in my palms.
I keep peeling them
to give my hands something to do. I tie knots
in my stomach for the same reason.
You dropped your orange on the ground and it rolled into the sand.
Madeline Felt is a sixteen year old writer and artist from Idaho. Madeline explores topics of intimacy, nature, and loneliness throughout her works, both poetry and prose, and has been published in several local magazines as well as her schools, Valley Visions. Madeline enjoys animals, reading, writing, and all forms of art.