i would run
all over town,
scraping clean
the aisles of
the grocery
store,
listening to
podcasts
on how to
change the
world,
i’d go
and sink in
to my parent’s
couch
chewing on black
and white versions
of history,
if it wasn’t
for the
bear
that is sitting
at my door.
and this bear,
she is
a big bear,
protective
of the door
as if
it is
her child
and maybe
she is
protective of me
in a way.
at first
i felt an army
of colonial ships
gathering in
my stomach
desperate
to escape
but now
all i want
is to stay.
i lay
on her stomach
and in each
whole breath
i feel a world
being born
and dying
and born
until i don’t know
and the womb
is everywhere
and i am in it.
Within the death and birth
and death,
there is a moment
where the sun comes to
find me
through the peephole
of the door
that the bear will not let me
pass through
and the light
it tugs at my shirt
like the loneliest child
or the hungriest wolf
and i can never discern
which it is
or how i feel about the
crying.
the phone rings
at regular intervals
lost in my pocket
and in my message machine
head i can hear them
saying
hey
it’s me
i’m calling for you
the day is this
the time is this
i miss you
i miss you
i miss you
to which
my message machine
head says again and again
i can’t come to the phone
right now
there is a bear at my door
and she is not ready to let
me leave
and the bear
she sweetly says nothing
she just dreams in green
and she dreams for me
wide awake forever
in the small of this house
where i cannot go
and sometimes i wonder
if some night she will claw
at the handle of the door
and float out of the house
born back into the stars
leaving me
with no bear
and all of this door
that opens up
like a mouth with fangs
or perhaps
a sky full of stars
in the morning
of the night.
