Through An Opening
It was as if they'd stepped into the head
of a wind god, and gotten trapped there and,
within captivity, made a space they could
sometimes recognize. Soon it looked
like home: chicken hawk; first stars;
a golden steeple. . . Almost, they could believe
each word of it,
the wordless parts also,
the particular riot—and beauty, for they did
admit as much—of a field on fire, the wind
tumbling through the god's hair, here and
there lifting it—so a kind of life, still—
They would make
a music of it. Singing
Hush now—why not hush? You're mine, coyote.
* * *
Carl Phillips' poem originally appeared in A Public Space.
Reprinted with the permission of the author.
All Rights Reserved.