The Scent
by Lauren Tivey

In the hills the coyotes chatter
and wail like hysterical women

under the full moon, descending
in the predawn to snuffle

the house foundation and pad
the wet grass as they roam

for cats. I hear them
circle and pant. But what

they smell, what scent
they've caught, is the rotting

carcass of our marriage. They wait,
patient for opportunity, while

we conduct our business, and ignore
the silent, leering corpse.

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