BEAR PERSON
this poem was first published at Purple Pig Lit
[the bear person
in bear costume
in a cave, cooking meat
feeds two children
homemade red sauce
with dead man beef.
this is the kitchen.
the kiddies listen
to their mother repeat
the tale of hunting
through the forest
ingredients for a feast.]
bear person: o come here,
come absolutely here, see and smell.
soon we’ll consume the fired man
in the pan of homemade spaghetti sauce.
o why you know, my sweet ones,
i killed this man . . . o he was an asshole
out there hunting today
and well to play his game
i shadowed myself behind the blackberries.
baby bear one: the sweet and sticky gooey tasty wet ones?
bear person: yes behind bunches of berries so black and so thick
sticky gooey tasty wet ones
overloading the bushes; eat too many and you’d be sick.
i blended in--turned off my sniffer; not a snore, not a roar
not a betrayal of boisterous paw or claw
broke the silence of mama’s hunt.
little babies,
get close, blow on the soup of the spoon, then sip.
i was a soft black silent shadow of the mind of man
about to kill (it wasn’t for the thrill).
i was the desired heap of meat in warrior fur
the size of the instincts
the old forest justice and family courage
faced with some mechanical threat
some mockery of beast self, man on a quest
the tons of guns you’re lucky to hear just once
before you’re shot dead
a trophy newly bled on pines, one at a time
or two or three, however many man can shoot to see.
but my man was bear too, i guess,
because who is watching us? who knows the difference? all minds are animal,
all actions bestially humane;
i can almost forgive how tame he was
when i debrained his oily mane.
i was the legend and the fury
(chewing and screwing him with my teeth,
my dangerous devotee, bloodied, fallen on his knees).
we make the humans angry (if it’s only for the sport)
and that makes a bear hungry,
sensing the eyes pried
and finger happy on the trigger.
fierce fears communicate.
i met his hunger in the rage, the life in rage. how quick at close range come the possibilities
for dealing brutalities!
i crept half a circle around the bushes
to be behind him and i got behind and pounced and well i had his neck . . . i can feed you from that murder.
baby bear two: feed us, feed us . . . chop it up!
bear person: it is chopped up in the sauce.
baby bear two: chop it up more so we don’t have to chew the human meat . . . is it all bloody?
bear person: it is plenty bloody like a soup i guarantee and not the first
hunger you have had
my milk was due in part to some hunters i had ripped apart
for stalking me when i had you so so vulnerable in my watch,
you still are.
and if i don’t look out, i should never pray, because prayer is action:
a mother, a bear . . . and well also think,
they would have killed or captured us
and maybe not eaten us . . . just placed us in a fucking circus,
a zoo, locked up, or--most likely--
wasted us, put our bodies in their houses.
they have that right though, because we have this right
and let any fake man-god shoot us dead for revenge, that revenge
is peppered in this dish;
i feed life simply because death isn’t around the corner,
it is always here. taste.
baby bears: YUMMMMMMMMMM! GROWLLLL!
bear person: wash your little paws, wash those filthy paws and grab three bowls.
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