emergency

Amber Bachiochi Thompson

This morning there are coyotes
cackling after the damp ring of an ambulance.
First they are a child laughing then
a woman screaming then
dogs barking and finally,
definitely, coyotes.

They are far enough away
that they have no real
relation to the emergency.
I sit at a glass patio table overlooking the
street and a plate of crepes, where before me
there is nothing but relation–
I caused the crepes;
I howl at the crepes;
I am the crepes:
thin-skinned and delicate
(two different things if you ask me).
Their fillings, too: smeared and spread thin.
The jar of preserves I held in my hand:
peach preserves / an act of care / self preserves.
Sliced blunt and smooth with the dull side of a fork.
Devoured. Appreciated.

I am a child laughing,
a woman screaming,
a dog barking and finally,
definitely,
a coyote.

Amber Bachiochi Thompson is an essayist and poet, as well as the founding editor of Too Well Away Literary Journal (currently on hiatus). Her work has appeared in Critical Read, Poet’s Billow, Rockvale Review, Ocotillo Review, and others. She lives in the OKC metro with her husband Daniel and loves cats, Paul Simon, and drinking lots of tea.