When I Think I’m at Peace

Coyote loves digging me.
I follow him to the boneyard
again and again. In the quiet
I caress the bleached skulls
of my favorite mistakes.

I remember eyes moving
in sockets, lips, tongues,
each one very hungry,
headquarters of whole
bodies I thought were mine.

Arms and legs, fingers, toes,
vertebrae, hips all mixed up
as one. Guts are long gone.

He sits at my feet, panting
proudly like a lab who just
dropped a fat, warm goose.

Good boy, I say. This humerus
is for you. He runs away.