Tell the Coyotes I’m Coming Home

& tell my mother I’ve dug up the chest we buried
down at the roots of the old apple tree,
where we buried baby clothes and the old worn bible,
& tell her I used her father’s shovel,
and that I’ve grown to just its size.

& tell the unnamed father I’ve grown my teeth
and now our fangs fit the same shapes,
that I followed the path less traveled on
& tell him I hunted in his name,
ended up at his blood just the same

& tell my brother that I love him
and I’m sorry I can stay no more,
my feet don’t fit in my own skin
& tell him to look to the stars
to count the bruises on his apples

and one day, he’ll understand what it means
to run.

& tell the ticking in my chest I cannot
tell where in time I am
whether the man in the mirror stands behind my shoulder
& tell me if I’m haunted by ghosts
or if he’s only in my mind, haunted at every end.

tell the hunted I concede
and the hunter I am on my way.
that I got a sawed off shotgun and a whole lotta tears.

tell the forest I’ve learned its calls
and that I’ve trampled a path on its winter coat

tell the coyotes I’ve learned why they howl out as they run—
how only anger can lead my worn, bare feet.

Nikolai Crowder