T. Stores
Bears
I.
The black cat balanced on the porch rail alerts
to the rattling brook and stares greenmoon-
eyed into me, pausing coffee--LOOK!—then
drags my gaze pricked-ear- directed to the shore where
a bear trundles through blue Siberian
irises into our backyard, below my children’s window, black
back rippling summer muscle within, summer
sun surface, tawny muzzle tipped a twitching black
toward the garbage, the compost, the garden,
me and the black cat on the porch, exposed. The black
cat expands to a black bristle, gleaming, as the black
bear lopes slow on long arms—fore-legs really—toward
me and my coffee, perfect for hugging, wrapping around
the neck, the torso, that snout in my ear, over my shoulder, another
in the dozen of bears inside with children and love, but for those claws
that rake the compost heap, gouge the plastic tubs of garbage, shred the melons
just ripening in the garden below. But for the claws. But for the claws.
II.
The big boys at church called my father Bear.
At eleven I thought the name came from his huge hugs,
safe and warm in public, cheek to his starched white Sunday shirt,
satiny tie, my arms inside his Sunday suit jacket not reaching
all the way around his waist, scented with leather belt, the belt
a reminder of the danger of his love, the snake hissing through the loops
before beatings, but in public he would wrap those long fore-legs
around and squeeze with a low growl of something I thought was love. But
at twelve I sprouted small melons, sipped first coffee, and saw
through greenmoon eyes his stare. His hate. His love. I bled
and the bear-hugs simply ceased. Ceased. Ceased. He saw me. Girl sees Bear.
III.
Bear inventory:
three sets of twins for our twins:
one snowy pair, blue-nosed for boy, pink-nosed for girl, sitting dumb, short arms and stupid
stares open wide, mall-fashioned at Build-a- Bear, some special mystery stuffed inside;
another gendered pair, Blueberry Bear and Raspberry Bear with thin long limbs, good for
wrapping around the neck, from my mother, not my father, unknown
to our own twin cubs;
a third pair in white, polar bears, walking on four legs of even length, unsuited
to hugs, busy on their way, perhaps, to the long hibernation.
Alone, on high shelf, my own bear, hand-sewn by someone who simply loved, loved simply,
worn thin and sad, witness witness witness to my childhood in those greenmoon eyes.
IV.
How do you explain bear to child?
Dangerous. A wild thing. Run away inside. Those bears
are not our bears, melon-round and snow-soft, coffee-eyed, twins
dumb in white fluff hibernation.
Hugs have claws. Hugs can bleed.
Bears are black with mystery inside.
Bears cannot love, cannot love, cannot love.
V.
Back on the back-porch, I do not run. The black cat does not run. I consider
garbage, compost, the mystery and hibernation of love. I remember
bear-hugs.
Hello Bear.
He hears me, sees me and stops
for me. I brave love for that wild
moment, reach out my long arms,
simply waiting.
He might be considering me, the garbage,
the weight of claws and the long black hibernation
of love. He might love. He might love. He might
simply lumber away.
originally published in Naugatuck River Review (Winter 2015). Honorable Mention, Narrative Poetry Contest
I.
The black cat balanced on the porch rail alerts
to the rattling brook and stares greenmoon-
eyed into me, pausing coffee--LOOK!—then
drags my gaze pricked-ear- directed to the shore where
a bear trundles through blue Siberian
irises into our backyard, below my children’s window, black
back rippling summer muscle within, summer
sun surface, tawny muzzle tipped a twitching black
toward the garbage, the compost, the garden,
me and the black cat on the porch, exposed. The black
cat expands to a black bristle, gleaming, as the black
bear lopes slow on long arms—fore-legs really—toward
me and my coffee, perfect for hugging, wrapping around
the neck, the torso, that snout in my ear, over my shoulder, another
in the dozen of bears inside with children and love, but for those claws
that rake the compost heap, gouge the plastic tubs of garbage, shred the melons
just ripening in the garden below. But for the claws. But for the claws.
II.
The big boys at church called my father Bear.
At eleven I thought the name came from his huge hugs,
safe and warm in public, cheek to his starched white Sunday shirt,
satiny tie, my arms inside his Sunday suit jacket not reaching
all the way around his waist, scented with leather belt, the belt
a reminder of the danger of his love, the snake hissing through the loops
before beatings, but in public he would wrap those long fore-legs
around and squeeze with a low growl of something I thought was love. But
at twelve I sprouted small melons, sipped first coffee, and saw
through greenmoon eyes his stare. His hate. His love. I bled
and the bear-hugs simply ceased. Ceased. Ceased. He saw me. Girl sees Bear.
III.
Bear inventory:
three sets of twins for our twins:
one snowy pair, blue-nosed for boy, pink-nosed for girl, sitting dumb, short arms and stupid
stares open wide, mall-fashioned at Build-a- Bear, some special mystery stuffed inside;
another gendered pair, Blueberry Bear and Raspberry Bear with thin long limbs, good for
wrapping around the neck, from my mother, not my father, unknown
to our own twin cubs;
a third pair in white, polar bears, walking on four legs of even length, unsuited
to hugs, busy on their way, perhaps, to the long hibernation.
Alone, on high shelf, my own bear, hand-sewn by someone who simply loved, loved simply,
worn thin and sad, witness witness witness to my childhood in those greenmoon eyes.
IV.
How do you explain bear to child?
Dangerous. A wild thing. Run away inside. Those bears
are not our bears, melon-round and snow-soft, coffee-eyed, twins
dumb in white fluff hibernation.
Hugs have claws. Hugs can bleed.
Bears are black with mystery inside.
Bears cannot love, cannot love, cannot love.
V.
Back on the back-porch, I do not run. The black cat does not run. I consider
garbage, compost, the mystery and hibernation of love. I remember
bear-hugs.
Hello Bear.
He hears me, sees me and stops
for me. I brave love for that wild
moment, reach out my long arms,
simply waiting.
He might be considering me, the garbage,
the weight of claws and the long black hibernation
of love. He might love. He might love. He might
simply lumber away.
originally published in Naugatuck River Review (Winter 2015). Honorable Mention, Narrative Poetry Contest
