I buried mom in Wickenburg
high on the mesa, four down from grandmother
where wind feathers mesquite and moon
shadows fire the restless who dance
on the graves at night, above the arroyo
laughing at the view like drunk coyotes.
Perhaps, like me, they go down the hill
to the Longhorn Bar, swing the doors in self-consciously,
belly up to the bar to brace for the trip home.
They catcall, steal flowers, fall backwards off the headstones
graffitied with names and forgotten things.
I pour out gin to my mothers as if it will soothe us all.
from “One Coyote Winter”