Bear

A canyon of caves looms over the train tracks

like a city block, high rises swollen with lives
you’ll never even glimpse. Each bear’s breath

echoes from the rocky mouths, slumbering five short.

The missing bodies hang from a neighbor’s garage,
strung up to let blood. Last summer, a black bear hung

his head through an open window in the downstairs bedroom

and watched my family sleep. As a child, I found a fresh track
in the mud and thought human—saw heavy heel, swell

of arch, five toes, thought barefoot. To break a dancing bear,

trainers would tether her to an iron stage, shoes bandaged
over her back feet, a slow fire heating the floor. To stand

was salvation, survival swaying to the music.