R. G. Ziemer writes poetry and fiction. He was born and bred on Chicago’s south side, where he learned to appreciate a good story. He has taught junior high English and college composition, worked construction and practiced genealogy. A canoeist and kayaker, he has traveled widely by wheel and wing, by boat and by book. His novel The Ghost of Jamie McVay was published in 2019.
Coyote in the Dark
By scent or by sound
Or by some special sense
My dogs know a coyote’s trespassing out there.
Should any moonshadow
Slip formlessly, silently
Through the nude willows,
They complain to the stars,
Summon me to the door,
Nervously milling about at my legs.
They plead for release from the leash.
They know the dark creature,
Though dog-like – same paws, same claws,
Same meat-craving jaws –
Is a different
Dangerous,
Beast made of midnight.
Just as I recognized you at first sight,
When I danced at the door like a slavering dog,
Yearning to dash out and challenge.
My heart whimpered then
For the will to break loose,
To give chase and run wild by the water,
Offer my throat,
Nip and nuzzle all night,
Prance and leap high in the moonlight.
I did then as I now,
Apprehensive, unnerved
By the avid eyes gleaming
In the thickening black,
Turn my back to the door,
Murmur words meant to soothe,
Stroke the dogs,
Toss a treat,
Stifle one last disquieted growl,
Till I feel you have finally faded away,
A coyote in the dark.
Originally published in Prairie Light Review Vol. 38, No.1
Trailer Park Incident
Fading daylight
wicks from the sky,
night tar thick and sticky
between trailers where moonlight
ought to be.
A big man walks with a small dog,
footsteps crunching on the gravel road.
Shadows leap from Christmas lights
and some thing happens down in the dark
some big dog tears from his owner’s leash
or a woman feels a fist
or a man’s betrayed.
Some thing unexpected
Something brutal and bloody.
Shouts, accusations and curses ring out.
And a lone voice cries
“How could you?”
The dog whimpers
and the man entreats
“How could you do that?”
Panic and rush,
slapping doors
as the neighbors descend from their decks to the road.
Car doors slam, engines roar,
headlight angels fly across the porchscreens.
Deep into the night they intone through the darkness,
the pissh of a beer can,
glow of a cigarette,
murmur of voices,
all wondering
How?
How could you?