Julie Sheehan

Coyotes invade. They claim to be the truth.

Black bears nose the bougainvillea, moving

eastward, indiscriminate, original.

Our sinks back up, our toilets will not drain,

our nature disobediently tends toward nature.

I hate you truly. Truly I do.

Everything about me hates everything about you.

The flick of my wrist hates you.

The way I hold my pencil hates you.

The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped

     in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.

Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

That the water was transformed, yes, a miracle, but

that the resultant wine was good – ah, conviction,

sensing the presence of divinity in the guest

who exclaims to the host but you’ve saved the best

for last! – to smell a god in the mother asking her son

please, do something or the party will be ruined, ruined!