Messages From Carrie
Coydogs/ A poem for all of us homebody vagabonds
February 3rd, 2009
There have been too many leavings to list in one place.
Every return another departure
Every departure another return,
She awakes from a shallow sleep,
And does not know where she is,
Which happens regularly enough on the road,
But never here at home,
And that feels significant.
In the woods outside an owl glides in silent hunt
Something small and soft squeaks
Then abruptly stops
On the ridge top a coyote mates with a German Sheppard
The result is a Coydog
Which like its father, is unafraid of human beings
Wags its tail and lowers its head.
But like its mother, is wild on a cellular level
Bearing the stamp of beware and betrayal
Between its yellow eyes.
It cannot help its nature.
It can only live out its unnamable call.
Unable to go back to sleep
She contemplates the necessity of homecoming.
The regular practice of calling back her soul,
From the farthest reaches of the four directions.
She remembers how much
She loves to make soup and sleep in her own bed,
Resting her head upon his shoulder
Their faces toward the open window.
But even in the midst of return
She is aware that sitting too long in the same place,
Now makes her restless,
A little distracted,
Twitchy.
There have been too many years on the road
Trotting like the coydog
Following one wild unnamable longing to the next.
She knows how to look domesticated,
Wag her tail and lower her head,
She can wash her own dishes and do the laundry,
Which satisfies another unnamable longing.
Yet, she cannot sleep knowing
That the owl is hunting,
And the tree roots are digging just a little further into the earth,
That somewhere the snow is falling,
And somewhere a deer is laying down
in the silent shadows to birth it’s young.
She cannot close her eyes knowing,
And something small and soft will cry out,
With only the round eye of the moon,
Watching.
Carrie Newcomer Winter 2009