Lisa Furmanski: Return of the Bear

You could mistake yourself for a bear,

her behavior, summers eating donuts

 

and birdseed from flecks of an old man. 

You, a woman, tucked inside an animal, 

 

you omit your cramping blood, you

sip cream from other mothers’ milk.

 

Two seasons of stolen cubs and patios locked.

A woman, as a bear, as a mother, shatters 

 

glass to ransack for sons. She is nuisance:

orange tracking collar, a pardon from

 

the governor, an exile to Canada after valium.

You forget. A bear repeats. She dumps the bins, 

 

ruts across velvet hills, rips apart swingsets.

You grunt while fucking, you yawn for sugar,

 

pinch berries between bee-stings. You reciprocate.

You amble and scratch, you nurse the grief of sons. 

 

Do not confuse yourself. Look around: rock

hens, electric fencing, blood meal on tulips.