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| Poet: n/a |
| Category: Angel |
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There's a bear living in the woods behind our house.
It comes stumbling in the night, wreaking havoc on
garbage pails and packages left unattended,
driving local dogs into a wild clamor.
I catch its familiar scent in our home, backside
of cinnamon wool slipping into my son's room.
Opening his door, except for a few blinking electronics,
the space is a cave, pitch black as the bear,
who turns and stares me down. "Get out," he growls.
"Where's my son?" I plead. But bear doesn't answer.
At night, I lay awake and listen to bear rustle around
my son's room. I worry about whether my
boy will ever come back, wonder if he's safe.
I imagine him trading places, now living a bachelor life
on the spare, wooded lot vacated by the bear,
nights spent curled up, naked in cold ferns and wet moss,
away from comforts, from all he has known.
Every morning I tiptoe in to see if the large lump
under piles of heaving covers is him.
It's hard to tell. I wait for him to wake,
wait for the return of clear blue eyes,
a cool, tame manner. Stretching as he rises,
I'm searching to see if today is the day
he will re-affix that sly curious smile, waiting,
with winter's hope still stuck in my chest.
Waiting for a change, we're moving
toward things I have no name for.
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