Mirrors

Coyote searches for his stolen reflection, lifts rocks, sniffs crannies, whimpers, dances the rag-man shamble, sings his loss, how sweet the bitter grief.

     At night I glance in car mirrors.       No headlights trail behind me,       only a nest of wires, groping like scorpions       that hum and tap their stingers.

Coyote's grandmother chants, Light a candle, read the liver of a chicken, enter the lowest cave, dig deep. Coyote tumbles down a chute, careens into a clearing that thickens as mosquitos swarm.

     As the morning sun swells, I cruise      a market of thieves, looking for used car parts.      A boy spots dangling wires, sprints after me,       says he'll take me to The Boss.

The blond scorpion who stole the reflection places a metallic claw in coyote's limp hand, croons, Pleased to see you in my shop, thought you'd never come.

     The boss talks to a sputtering walkie-talkie,       says to me, No, no mirrors for a Pathfinder, sorry.      I pull away, then he tilts his head back, lifts his hand,      delicately lowers his fingers. twice. I return.       He shows me my mirrors, and haggling quickly,      I buy them back.