Coyote

Do you remember when I told you I

love you like life itself? We were driving

through the desert near Joshua Tree, all

along the roads threading the mountains with

their brown bodies and caps of snow. It was

our first road trip -- and our introduction to

the annoyances that love can bring. Do

you remember you told me you hated

dumb clichés (though, I might add, you always

expected chocolates on Valentine’s

Day)? My love, I love you like life itself,

but life has never been kind or tender.

I love you when you count my faults and score

me against some perfect ghost. I love you

when you define me by the worst things I

have done. I love you though our love ended

and you no longer complain about love’s

clichés. I love you though you moved away -

and I drove across seven states with you

to provide you company and flew back

alone to a bare home with the dog we

raised together, all the while weeping in

the California sky as I approached

this same desert from above and spot the

mountain we ascended when I told you

I love you like life itself. There, we cringed

at the coyote slinging a bloodied

rabbit across the highway, returning

to her pups with a meal locked in her jaws.

Like life itself, my love has teeth bearing

raw, bleeding meat. My love is the living

flesh that feeds yours without the cruelty

of borrowed sentiment. And even now

I still love you like life itself, and think

maybe our love would not have ended if

only we both had more loved life itself.