Shadows
for Jan
She called to say that the shadow they saw
is esophageal cancer. A life-long smoker,
she’s not surprised, but is shaken. I ask
what I can do. Pray, honey, just pray.
Late February mud and ice, rivulets of snow-melt.
On the way up from the barn last night, coyotes,
high-pitched yip and sing from the back fencerow,
leafless trees inked on the fiery horizon,
the howls growing louder, their shrieking lope
coming closer. It’s breeding season, the males
aggressive, unhinged and one-thing.
In the dark woods, border north of the house
that slopes to the creek, the leafless trees
stand as close as soldiers shoulder-to-shoulder
or the posts of a frontier enclosure. There, a coyote,
dark shape appearing, disappearing
among trees, its narrow hips tucked under,
body low, elongated, a dark shadow, skulking.
*
Daye Phillippo taught English at Purdue University and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Presence, The Midwest Quarterly, Cider Press Review, One Art, Shenandoah, The Windhover, and many others. She lives and writes in rural Indiana where she hosts a monthly Poetry Hour at her local library. Thunderhead (Slant, 2020) was her debut full-length collection. You may find more of her work on her website: dayephillippo.com
