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.
