It’s the opposite of hunger, the space
that opens in your gut
when you see an animal
that’s been taken down by a pack.
I once looked into the glazed
eye of a fawn half-eaten
by coyotes, blood bright on the grass,
and glanced up to see its mother
watching me from nearby,
beneath pines at the edge of the yard.
The doe stayed there all day,
even after my cousin’s husband
bagged up the tiny head and forelegs
and hosed down the lawn.
Her mourning I understood.
The fawn’s screaming had startled me
awake in absolute darkness,
hair rising on my arms—
a cry that sounded a bit like a baby’s,
only agonized. Wailing and wailing.
Silence. Then a chorus of coyotes,
big and small. But learning.
It’s only natural, predators hunt to eat,
but I was ashamed I didn’t run out
to try to stop the suffering. All day
my cousin’s child kept asking me
if coyotes could open doors.
So I also understood his father’s washing the ground,
which let us eat our meat and pretend
nothing, inside or out, had died.