Muzzle lifted, what she sniffs out is this
broken world¾ pierces its jugular
to see if it still gives pulse.
What she knows is trapped in her throat
and if she spoke, you would turn into the alder
whose branches snapped, unable to bear
weight of ice and light.
She knows how to mend the source of wounds.
It is not in any lick of flame, wind or ground,
or the mouth of a slow river you thought a baptism for broken song.
What you thought you knew was wrong.
Residue of suffering is balm.
It coats all hearts and genitals,
stains all births with funerals.
This is why the coyote curses
and blesses the soil in her same long note.
From her howl she is remaking
her own four legs, her dirty pelt,
settling back into bone, her clatter
of pain, joy filling her throat.