Sofía Aguilar

what if my son is not his ancestors’ wildest dreams?

after ellie lopez

he is descended from two types

of hunting dogs. bred from birth to catch

rodents, rabbits, foxes, smaller game

despite being small himself. high

energy. rapid instinct. this is what

his people meant by survival, 

shivering through the winter &

bearing enough puppies that most

will make it though. but he can’t mate 

anymore & knows nothing of hardship.

he snaps after flies & moths without

catching them. he smells squirrels

but can’t figure out where they

are or follow them. spends his days

tanning in the sun, always knowing

where his next meal will come

from. he does not worry about hunger.

& he’s too nice to everyone, 

my tía says, so excited about strangers

he urinates everywhere, staining

the concrete. perhaps he won’t

become a fierce protector, defending

the people & home he loves. he’s 

so open, trusting, almost naive, 

turning every intention into a good 

one. i think, he could be kidnapped

easily, go willingly as long as 

they held his leash in their hands.

he’s so beautiful it makes him 

vulnerable, like a girl. as frightening

as birthing a daughter & letting her

loose into the world. sometimes

i come home & still get surprised 

when i see him standing there, 

safe, waiting for me, tail wagging. 

being wild is not always romantic. 

my son is softer than his ancestors 

thought he should be, or believed 

possible. i wonder if he’s what they 

had in mind. if they remember the 

first time they were tender or looked

up at a person they loved in the 

face, rousing & lurching & alive.  

a coyote can become an etomology lesson

truthfully, i should’ve noticed 

the coyote sooner. the hills are a hard,

steep place for anyone to hide—

the wide, flat swaths of prairieland, 

few toyon trees pockmarking the trail

—but you only catch a coyote 

in your view if they want to be caught.

they see us before we see them there, 

sitting on their hind legs by a neighbor’s 

brick wall, watching us with their ears 

twitching like a dog’s & the rest of 

their bones as unmoving as ours.

my lover would say, make noise. 

startle them. clap. yell. let them know

you’re not friendly. throw a heavy

thing. this keeps them safe.

but my body has never weighed

enough to be consequential & instead 

i find myself wanting to tell you that

coyotes are a type of wolf. their name 

comes from nahuatl, which was swallowed

into spanish into english. & my ancestors

spoke all three languages, sometimes all

at once. instead, i tell you to stay close  

to me because you are not too big

to be prey & they’re as unafraid of 

humans as you are & perhaps populate

just as many stories now. if you know 

violence & troublemaking, they invented 

it. with enough time, a word can be 

bastardized into a different shape.

you’re silent. obedient. curious,

staring as we walk past & trying

to figure out what you’re looking at.

i wonder, almost envious, 

what it’s like to see a new thing 

for the first time & know just enough 

to be brave.