Coyote, I want my man back. I saw your tongue lick the side of his face, leaving a trail of desire like cactus honey. I saw you press your nails into the back of his hand, breaking the skin just enough to raise five perfect spots of stained blood. I saw your laugh swimming in the back of his eyes until they turned to glass.
No, I do not want the prince, with his easy words and golden buttons, his silk-hung rooms and mold-speckled flagstones.
No, I do not want your breathtaking beauty, deathless as the wind and sharp as bone splinters.
No, I do not want fame, nor fortune, nor power to wear around my neck like a child’s useless string of broken beads.
I want my man, Coyote, my man with his missing thumb and his gravel-strewn voice and his awkward smile. Make yourself a manikin from scorpions and sand, for I will not let you keep him.
Give him back to me, heart-whole, or I will go to my Grandmother’s and weave until blood seeps from my fingers into the pattern. I will scatter my blankets over the lands where you dance, across the dunes and through the wildflower fields. My Grandmother’s sticky threads have caught many a fly and they’ll catch you too, bind you to one place until you cry out from immobility.
I have written this letter in the grass, and on the backs of the dry lizards, and in the sweet smoke of my summoning campfire. I know you see me, waiting here.
You know what I want, Coyote. Do not force me to come looking for you.
