BY PATRICK KINDIG
There is a circle around the fire
& inside it is where I sleep.
The dark touches the circle’s edge
& outside somewhere
the hyena is waiting. He
is hungry & he is patient.
He is a clairvoyant
bending backward, always
laughing up ghosts. At night
he calls my name & his voice
is almost human. Some day one of us
will have to die & if I am the one
then I am the one. If I am not,
I will use a spoon to dig the stone
from his eye. I will place the stone
beneath my tongue & look into the fire
& at its edge I will see nothing
& at its center I will see nothing.