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.