We learned early how to stretch
leftovers for a week. How to sell
things we were sure we never would. How
the emptying space reminds us
we at least paid the rent. The coyotes
outside were miniature. They ate trash
and roadkill. They ran in small
groups, in odd curving patterns like
the rat rivers of Boston on garbage
day after sunset. They let out high yips
that felt like aching, not communicating,
that felt like refusing to answer
the phone when the collectors called
and they always called. The bright cries
were a promise to survive on what was
left, a promise to keep searching
for the mouthful that lets you
search for the next.
John A. Nieves’ poems appear in journals such as: Crazyhorse, Southern Review, Willow Springs, North American Review and Massachusetts Review. His first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Judges Prize. He’s an Associate Professor at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry.