Recoyote. His skull is attached to my own. Each moment he reminds me of what is missing. And so that hole in the SELF, where my memory used to be, is actually full of noise, of whispers, of static, of coyotewords. Recoyote is a comfort, despite the strangeness of this situation, and we have taken to having full conversations. I can understand him better now, having become accustomed to his unusual manner of speaking.
Recoyote, how were you chosen among coyotes to be a recoyote?
"...ssss...I was formed that-ch-ch-ch way..."
So you were a recoyote from the beginning?
How are you different from other coyotes?
"...tsch-chh-sss...there's a human-nessssss inssside me..."
How did it get there?
I feel now that there is a coyote-ness in me.
My dreams at night are full of Coyote, the corporeal Coyote that slept in my arms before my memory was gone. There is a warmth and softness and lushness and REALness to these dreams that takes my breath away, that startles me awake with the feeling of fur still tickling my skin. In these dreams, it is hard to know where I end and where Coyote begins. This is DreamCoyote.
So I am never alone. Even in sleep, Coyote is there. When I wake, there he is on my head. Even when I untie his ribbon and leave him by the bath when I wash my hair, he sends electrical coyotepulses into the water. Tiny jolts of his presence... as if to warn me that too real a separation could be extremely dangerous.