has died. My wife’s first lover
will die tonight. My neighbor
survived, as will the coyotes
who keep to the shadows,
picking off a cat
or two, toppling trash cans
to get at the soup bones
sweating through the plastic.
Here, they do not howl.
They know by instinct
that if they see a man
—any man—they should run.
James Davis May
James Davis May’s poems have appeared in Five Points, Green
Mountains Review, New England Review, the New Republic,
Pleiades, Tampa Review and elsewhere. He has received fellowships from Inprint and the Krakow Poetry Seminar. In 2013 he
won the Collins Award from Birmingham Poetry Review. The
former editor of New South, he lives in Young Harris, Georgia.