always arrived without warning
dark lunking things
that prowl the edges
of my world
my father always
told me about his bear
a chubby brown beast
that rambled through
trash cans
berry patches
it was summer
in Yellowstone
he was only 17
working as a
look out
at a remote tower
on a moonlit night
he chased it
down a trail
beating on a frying pan
with a spoon
I tried to imagine
how he could ever
be 17
or chase down a trail
how his body
had become
more bear like
with time
what nature of bear
would choose
his company
I wondered
as a kid
I always felt this
was the only story
my father told
that was worth
a listen
the rest
were about
trading cigarettes
for whiskey in Korea
or the time
his cousins
put kerosene
in the gas tank
of an old farm truck in Iowa
my bears were
different
they always appeared
as messengers
telling me stories
I wouldn’t know
for years to come
like that time at dusk
when two
cubs ran across
the pasture
at David’s house
and one suddenly vanished
without warning
the way his son had
at 17
one winter
with such
dark despair
or the big black
fellow
whose breath formed
cloud like at the door
of my tent
where my girlfriend Barbara
and I made love
and slept
I envisioned
our bodies becoming
bear sushi
the tent a convenient
wrapper
claws
neatly
slicing us up
into small bloody rounds
my entire knowledge
of bears was from
my father’s story
and the assurance that
any loud noise would
send them off in flight
thus equipped
I quickly unzipped
the door of the tent
and yelled as loudly
as I might
go away bear
not realizing until
the words arrived
that his massive head
lay just inches from
my own
luckily
that bear looked at
me with disdain
snorted and walked away
that was our last
summer together
maybe the bear came
to say goodbye
to her before the
cancer came
I wondered about
that last night
dreaming
about a bear
